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Eminent 

Respectability 


A Tale of Love, 
Politics and Adventure. 


i " By WILLIAM R. PEDRICK. 


PRESS OF 

ALFRED M. SLOCUM CO. 
718-724 Arch Street, 

PHILADELPHIA. 


1902. 


-y Oj A 



COPYRIGHT, 1902. 


BY 


WILLIAM R. PEDRICK. 


“Within my earthly temple there’s a crowd; 

There’s one of us that’s .humble, pne that’s proud; 
There’s one that’s broken-hearted for his sins, 

And one who, unrepentant, sits and grins: 

There’s one who loves his neighbor as himself, 

And one who cares for naught but fame and pelf— 

From much corroding care I should be free. 

If once I could determine which is Me.’’ 

— Pirated Poems. 



Eminent Respectability. 


CHAPTER L 

“The world is mine oyster.” 

Near the quiet little town of B — , in a part of the State 
of New Jersey that makes it conveniently accessible to 
our great metropolis, there stands, pleasantly situated 
in spacious grounds and among abundant, well-chosen 
shade trees and shrubbery, a large, ivy-covered and quite 
stately looking pressed-brick mansion that, at the be- 
ginning point of our narrative, in i8 — , had for nearly 
a quarter of a century been the home of Mr. Henry Bel- 
field. Although what swift Americans call “old” — hav- 
ing been built in ante-bellum days and in the ante-bellum 
style of architecture — this mansion is still well preserved 
and quite acceptable to a tenant who can afiford the latest 
and best. Its high, arched doorways, spacious porches, 
Grecian columns and vegetable decorations, taken to- 
gether with its immediate surroundings, recall to the 
aged citizen the time when the American “gentleman and 
scholar” was a countryman, with respect to his business 
or professional activities as well as to his voting place. 
The site seems to have been selected with the eye of 
prophecy, as well as with good judgment; for, not only 
does it command a good view of the river, upon which 
the demesne borders, but it is now just near enough to 
railway, post office, church, etc., for convenience without 
annoyance. 

I 


Eminent Respectability. 


Eminently respectable, by all the canons of human 
excellence, was Mr. Henry Belfield. Mark the adverbial 
qualification; for, to affirm, in this age, that a person is 
respectable is but to say, should such person be a male, 
that he has never been in limbo, or, in the case of a 
female, that she is not a bawd. Mere negative affirma- 
tions these, and usually quite superfluous, as these things 
are presumed to be true of all mortals until the contrary 
is legally proved; which probably can be of no more 
than one in ten thousand of the civilized, and, of the un- 
civilized — human or brute — none whatever. To be emi- 
nently respectable, however, is to be a person of mark, a 
person of consequence, and yet not beyond the pale of so- 
ciety, or of human approval, as were Captain Kidd and 
Jesse James, and as have been, and are, certain temer- 
ous philosophers. It is to occupy a position in the world 
that all sane civilized persons properly aspire to, and 
which, according to our census reports, is attained by 
only one to the hundred, — exclusive of Indians not taxed, 
— which percentage is constantly diminishing with the 
increasing strenuousness of American life, while the alti- 
tude of eminence gets ever higher. 

We say that Henry Belfield was eminently respectable. 
Indeed, a full measure of justice to his quality requires 
us to say that he was />r^-eminently respectable, as his 
fellow men, whether they knew him as an acquaintance, 
as a neighbor, or as a character, very properly held him 
to be. Properly, we say, for was he not rich? — ^puissant? 
Was he not patriotic? and, withal, fashionably devout? — 
strictly conventional? He was one who had learned the 
world by having to do with it. Newspapers he read with 
businesslike regularity, but books he religiously es- 
chewed, as fit only for old ladies and the dilettante. He 

2 


Eminent Respectability. 

was not, and never had been, a human squirrel, an indus- 
trious producer and frugal preserver of wealth, truly, 
for he was a practical man of sense. With true practical 
insight he had come to regard the product of a man’s 
toil as, primarily, a kind of raw material; vulgar, redolent 
of sweat and of the stables; necessarily mean, both in 
quantity and in character; and as a thing that, to be 
acceptable as a passport to eminent respectability, must 
be distilled over, through the subtle mechanism of civili- 
zation law, from the pockets of the many toilers to the 
pockets of a few non-toiling beneficiaries. 

Was he not seized of much land, the ownership of 
which has controlled human activities and been the pat- 
ent to independence and priority from time immemorial? 
Possessed he not stocks, bonds, mortgages, the modern 
talismans that give their owners the powers and im- 
munities of gods among mortals? Could he not, like 
mighty Jove, approach the object of a desire in a shower 
of gold? Hence, was it not meet that he should be 
feared, and fawned upon, and regarded with almost 
sacred reverence by every ninety and nine other mortals, 
and courteously honored by every eminently respectable 
hundredth? At any rate, such was and is the feeling of 
a large majority of mortal kind, with whom we, whether 
we will it so or not, are obliged to concur, under the 
severest of penalties. 

To one ignorant of his identity, his person presented 
nothing out of the ordinary. By such a one, he might 
have been taken for what he really was, or for one of the 
multitude who were striving to become what he was. 
Five feet eight from sole to crown; neither thick nor 
thin, fat nor lean, to any marked degree; hair dark 
brown, merging at the temples into light red, or sandy; 

3 


Eminent Respectability. 


neatly-trimmed whiskers that extended a trifle below the 
ear lobes, and thus flanked on either side an otherwise 
smoothly shaved, florid, roundish face; eyes gray and 
well set; nose of the Roman type and suggestive of a 
parrot-like propensity for seizing upon everything that 
came its way; jaw strong and aggressive; teeth good and 
much shown while he was wrapped in meditation, by an 
habitual puckering of the mobile lips; sleek, healthy and 
prosperous looking, with the time markings of forty- 
eight or fifty years — such, briefly, was Henry Belfield, to 
the eye of the unhypnotized beholder. 

Some twenty-one years earlier in life he had con- 
tracted a prudent marriage that placed him fairly on his 
feet and enabled him to proceed upon his career with 
strength and speed from the very “scratch.” With a 
wife, he had landed not only $50,000, cash in hand, but, 
what was of much greater moment, a place within the 
circle of the select — a kind of apotheosis — ^which circum- 
stance was to him, and would have been to anyone not 
an idiot, a Fortunatus’s purse and wishing-cap com- 
bined. And, indeed, it was manifest that his prudence 
and sagacity had won for him the admiration of the gods, 
as well as of men, for Dame Fortuna had made frequent 
disclosures of her favor and appreciation. 

His grandfather Belfield, like a prudent man, begat 
but two children— both male — ^whoni he christened 
George and Alfred respectively. George, equally pru- 
dent, begat but two — likewise males — and Alfred, per- 
haps still more prudent, died a childless bachelor. Henry 
the elder son of George, and his brother Arthur — ^who 
was drowned some years before the time of which we 
write — had, in accordance with the family^s traditional 
policy of moderation, begotten one child each; but both 

4 


Eminent Respectability. 

, 

had blundered — or at least made a departure (important 
or otherwise, as it may be viewed) — in the matter of sex 
— the two cousins being girls. 

Now, George and Alfred Belfield were Christian men 
who apparently read their Bibles, and reasonably in- 
ferred Christ’s approval of the conduct of the supposi- 
tious traveler who distributed the talents among his 
servants. Accordingly, after George’s death, which hap- 
pened about seven years previous to the opening period 
of our narrative, a will found among his papers gave 
Henry, as a special legacy, $50,000 out of the body of 
his estate; and a year later Uncle Alfred’s will was found 
to give Arthur $10,000, half of which had been advanced 
during the lifetime of the testator, with residue, consist- 
ing largely of mining lands and stocks, to Henry, who 
was named in both wills as administrator and trustee. 
The lands and stocks thus acquired through father and 
uncle had within the last five or six years proved to be 
very valuable, although they represented no very great 
outlay. Hence, while Arthur’s fortune — now fallen to 
his daughter Phyllis — ^was inconsiderable only by com- 
parison, Henry’s, by dint of a prudent marriage, special 
legacies and inheritances, good business qualities, and 
his advantage as administrator and trustee, placed his 
eminent respectability beyond doubt or danger. 

Now, while the disposition of a man’s property by 
testament is entirely a matter of private business, it is 
nevertheless always a matter of public concern; and, in 
accordance with the rule in such cases, these wills were 
much discussed and commented on by all manner of 
mortals, until they were “talked out” and displaced by 
fresher themes. The majority of these voluntary judges 
denounced both wills as unjust to Arthur (as if he could 

5 


Eminent Respectability. 

have rights in other men’s property !) ; and, had they been 
submitted to a popular jury by a clever lawyer and an 
unbiased judge, both would probably have been voided 
on the ground of “insanity.” By the more owlish, how- 
ever, and particularly by the eminently respectable, they 
were held to have been wisely made. Henry, they urged, 
had shown himself to be a shrewd, practical man of busi- 
ness; acquisitive, prudent, and likely to protect and turn 
to advantage every dollar that should be intrusted to 
him; while Arthur, on the other hand, was of a dilettant 
turn, given to wasting his time and money in such friv- 
olous occupations as book-reading, picture-painting, 
tramping about the world, and in communing with kin- 
dred spirits. To put property into such hands, is, they 
said, to throw it to the winds; and, the principal object 
of large accumulations being family exaltation, it is the 
wise and proper thing to place it in hands that will most 
likely direct it to this end. Arthur himself concurred in 
the popular view. He would not be reconciled to these 
wills. He denounced his brother, whom he charged with 
having defrauded him by making false representations 
to the testators, using undue influence, and even still 
more culpable conduct; and, had he not been suddenly 
removed from the scene in the manner stated, he would 
probably have made trouble for Henry, and incidentally 
have furnished work for lawyers, and entertainment for 
the reading and talking public. 

Arthur’s anger, however, provoked no resentment on 
the part of the prudent Henry. Immediately upon his 
brother’s death, he assumed his proper character as god- 
father to his orphaned niece; then a pretty child of 
twelve years, and now a charming maiden of eighteen, 
a member of his family flock, his legal ward and cestui qiie 
trust. 6 


Eminent Respectability. 

When the matter of choosing a career came to be 
considered, the still small voice told Henry that, among 
civilized men, the most useful man was he who conse- 
crated himself to the service of the state, or common- 
wealth. That, for civilization to be advanced to the 
greatest possible height, it is necessary that the best of 
practical minds be devoted to the work. Moreover, as 
intelligent labor on behalf of the state is of all labor the 
most efficacious, conscience no more than does the state 
itself demands a material sacrifice of those who serve it. 
Clearly, duty called him to the service of the state; and, 
while he heard her plaintive voice in one ear, that of self- 
interest articulated in the other, “there is your road to 
wealth or power.’^ Having decided, he entered with 
characteristic energy upon his career. He uniformly de- 
clined public office, seeing clearly that it was not here 
that he could best serve either the public or himself. His 
keen insight made it clear to him that the general belief 
in the existence of popular government was a delusion; 
though it was, perhaps, a happy one that it might not be 
well or wise to try to destroy. He saw that, from a 
practical standpoint, the public business was not every- 
body’s business, and that it could not possibly be made 
so — that it was, and ever must be, the business of a few; 
and that these few were and — let fools amuse themselves 
with the ballot as they like — ever will be self-appointed. 
He perceived that the public business, like any other 
business, must have managers — executive men who can- 
intelligently direct — and that nominal office-holders 
must generally be the agents of these. Seeing these 
things, he acted accordingly, always like a practical man 
of affairs; and he now had. the satisfaction of having his 
patriotism acknowledged, and his judgment fully and 

7 


Eminent Respectability. 


gloriously confirmed. Honored by all men; pointed to 
with pride and triumph by the articulate American 
public as an illustrious example of their country’s self- 
made men; held up as a pattern by fond fathers to hope- 
ful and ambitious sons — truly he could hardly be ex- 
pected to feel the ground beneath his feet! Nor had 
the dear public been mean or forgetful in the matter of 
material recognition of his worth. According to esti- 
mates by those whose knowledge is to be presumed, his 
fortune now footed to at least two million dollars. 

Very creditable, surely, and eminently respectable; 
for, as it now came to hand, not a dollar of it exuded the 
odor of sweat or of the stables. Not a dollar had a vul- 
gar taint or tint. Two million dollars! to earn which, a 
skilled wealth producer would, at the present state of 
wages, be obliged to toil four thousand years! How 
impotent, how contemptible, is toil! How insignificant 
is industrial skill. What magic is there in the combina- 
tion of luck, thrift, politics and a title to land! 

Mrs. Belfield was a fair-skinned brunette. She was 
well formed, well preserved, and of a medium stature. 
Her features suggested that, as a young woman, she 
might very probably have affected Henry Belfield with 
charms other than a dot of $50,000 and entree to the 
social Olympus. 

Her stately carriage, quiet, deliberate and sedate man- 
ner, studied precision of speech, severe observance of 
the conventionalities of ultra-polite society (even to the 
rigid suppression of the letter ‘T” in speaking), her rich 
but modest apparel and ornamentation, were all in strict 
congruity with her “crows’ feet,” and labeled her a cor- 
rect, prudent, eminently respectable woman in the early 
afternoon of life. 


8 


Eminent Respectability. 

Their daughter, Virginia, and niece, Phyllis, aged 
twenty and eighteen respectively, possessed character- 
istics of both body and mind that placed them in sharp 
contrast with each other. Virginia was charming, but 
not beautiful, according to popular ideals; Phyllis was 
both, to an exceptional degree. Each had a figure that 
was a model of symmetry and grace, that of Virginia be- 
ing a little the taller and more slender. Both had pretty 
mouths and good teeth; the dental beauty of Phyllis be- 
ing such as might have excited the envy of Venus her- 
self. Virginia had a highly “humped,^^ or angular nose; 
Phyllis had one as straight and delicate as Psyche’s. 
Virginia’s face was thinly sprinkled with freckles, the 
color of which was matched by that of her hair and 
eyes, so that her complexion may probably be best 
described by calling it a pale russet. On the other hand, 
her cousin’s satin-like skin was absolutely free from 
blemish, and had the beautiful cameo tinting of health 
and high spirits. Her sparkling eyes were blue; her 
hair, fine and flaxen. The latter was still much permitted 
to fall in fluffy waves and folds upon her neck and shoul- 
ders, which gave her a childish aspect and made her seem 
to be at least two years younger than she really was. 

It was with respect to their idiosyncrasies, however, 
that these young ladies presented the strongest contrasts. 
Both had been carefully bred, and educated as girls simi- 
larly situated usually are. They had been better instructed 
in rhetoric than in grammar; better in etiquette than in 
mathematics. In science and philosophy,- their knowl- 
edge was superficial; in the conventionalities of polite 
society, it was profound. Neither of them could prepare 
a meal, nor make a garment; both could paint a little, 
and dance — so the young men said— with fairy-like 

9 


Eminent Respectability. 


felicity and grace. Virginia could perform upon the 
piano and sing passably well; but, in these particulars, 
Phyllis’s capabilities were exceptional. Virginia usually 
profited by her instruction, and often improved upon it; 
Phyllis was in many things sadly remiss. Virginia was 
rigid in her observance of the proprieties, which Phyllis 
violated with provoking perversity. The latter, in the 
opinion of her aunt, was shockingly heedless; in the 
opinion of her cousin, she was obdurate, perverse — 
ofttimes a veritable rantipole. 

Virginia was proud, and often haughty; Phyllis was 
simplicity personified, but with a roguish shrewdness 
ever showing through her artless manner. Virginia was 
intolerant of opposition, and often irascible; Phyllis, 
though defiant enough, to the extent of doing as she 
pleased without seeming to oppose, was never aggressive, 
and met her cousin’s sharpest attacks with exasperating 
sallies of fun and banter. Both had quickness of wit, 
but they exercised it in very different ways. Virginia 
was caustic, sarcastic, and never scrupled “to make free 
with friendship’s finest feelings,” which Phyllis never in- 
tentionally hurt, even in resentment. The latter never- 
theless frequently bowled her cousin out in a most artful 
manner, without giving ground for offense, or seeming 
to be at all conscious of her victory. Virginia was rigidly 
orthodox; Phyllis was shockingly heterodox. Virginia 
did everything according to rule; Phyllis did most things 
by whim, and, when possible, in a way that had no known 
precedent. 

We come upon the Belfields in the midst of a do- 
mestic storm. Sharp gusts were not infrequent in this 
“happy home;” but, on the present occasion, the pyro- 
technical display was probably exceptional. The light- 

lO 


Eminent Respectability. 

ning flashed fiercely from Virginians eyes, and censure, 
reproof, protest and deprecation snapped and hissed 
from her formidable tongue, while, at frequent intervals, 
a less minatory rumble came echo-like from her mother 
and father. As usual, the cause of this disturbance was 
the conduct of the inexplicable Phyllis, who frequently 
produced these electrical effects by the precipitation of 
some chilling circumstance into the family atmosphere. 

Indeed, the wayward girl had been guilty of a grave 
offense. She was now close upon her eighteenth birth- 
day, and, with the approval of her aunt, had decided to 
commemorate the occasion by entertaining a few of her 
most intimate friends. As the affair was to be quite 
informal, and the guests principally former schoolmates 
and their brothers, aunt and cousin had concerned them- 
selves but little, and the matter of invitations had been 
left entirely to Phyllis; which was very unfortunate, for 
they had now learned, to their consternation, that 
among the prospective guests were the son and daugh- 
ter of a neighboring farmer. 

A pretty coil, indeed, this; for, as we have observed, 
the Belfields were strict in their observance of the pro- 
prieties. Social intercourse between the eminently re- 
spectable and the plebeian herd was a sin — or a shame — 
of which they had never been guilty. Not that they 
cared for themselves. Why should they? They were 
quite disinterested; but, as intelligent mortals, they had 
their duties to society. Should such intimacy be prac- 
ticed, it would prove fatal to every proper distinction 
between the classes, subvert civilization, and involve 
mankind, rich and poor alike, in hopeless, cataclysmal 
ruin. Among their immediate neighbors, therefore, the 
Belfields had no intimates. For, although B — was in 

II 


Eminent Respectability. 


a healthy and an attractive locality, it had not yet been 
invaded by country home-seekers from the metropolis; 
and among- their fellow citizens of the vicinity there 
were, as yet, none who could pass muster as eminently 
respectable. Belfield himself was polite and courteous 
to everybody; was much visited in a “business” way; 
often entertained public men, to whom he was a very 
agreeable host; but business and “society” were quite 
distinct, and could never blend in a home ruled over by 
Mrs. Belfield and Virginia. 

Phyllis received the storm that she had provoked with 
characteristic imperturbation. Her handsome face be- 
trayed no penitence. By an unknowing listener, who 
should have seen only her, she would have been taken 
for only a spectator of the scene within. There lurked a 
suggestion of good-natured mischief in her blue eyes, 
and that which might excuse, if not justify, her cousin^s 
reproach for “seeing fun in the distraction of others.” 
She did not laugh; but, resting her elbow on the arm of 
her chair, and sinking her chin into the palm of her hand, 
she gazed at her cousin throughout most of the storm 
with a look of mock gravity and wonder; and, occa- 
sionally moving her face slowly in a doubtful and nega- 
tive manner, she seemed to say, “Indeed! Really, I 
don’t understand it at all.” She showed not the slightest 
resentment, in word or look, and made but a weak at- 
tempt to justify her conduct. 

Once, assuming an air of abstraction, she ventured to 
say quietly, “But Emily is a nice girl.” To which Virginia 
flashed back, “So is the parson’s cook. Have you invited 
her also?” Again, in gentle protest, “Did not Alex 
drag you from the river last summer, at the risk of his 
own life, after your gallant escort had abandoned you?” 

12 


Eminent Respectability. 

“As a village smith, or some itinerant minstrel, might do 
on a similar occasion,” replied her cousin. “I appre- 
ciate the service, and admire his courage; but the fitting 
reward was the one he foolishly declined.” 

“Does a hundred dollars balance your life in the 
scales?” 

“Had he been offered a thousand, he would probably 
have declined it just the same.” 

“Probably,” said Phyllis, her tone still one of abstrac- 
tion. A few minutes later she said: 

“They are very well bred.” 

“We may very probably be spared the mortification 
of seeing them lick their fingers, and shovel in pie with 
their knives.” 

“Alex is well educated.” 

“I don’t doubt that he can converse intelligently about 
potatoes and pigs. Emily, in her neat muslin dress, and 
with her blistered hands, would make a very pretty 
Evangeline, truly; and she will probably prove a delight 
to your gentleman guests and confusion to their sisters. 
As for your sunburnt Damon — what an Othello he 
would make! I fancy the fit and texture of his “full- 
dress.” 

Phyllis said no more until the storm was spent — 
through the exhaustion of the subject, or of the stormers 
— and it was soon afterward found to be the hour for 
retiring. Virginia, as she swept bedward, looked as if 
she expected the fairies of Dreamland to divulge new 
causes of mortification. Phyllis, on the contrary, said 
good night to Tabby, Fido and Pete — and to the human 
members of the family — in her sweetest notes, and 
tripped off as merrily as though she was pleased with 
everything, past and present. And she probably was. 

13 _ . . 


Eminent Respectability. 


After all, Virginia and her mother had waded the 
waters of Styx before they reached it. Indeed, they 
found that their course did not lay across it at all. For, 
on the following day, there came a polite note from Alex 
and Emily Webster, expressing due appreciation, thanks 
and — regrets. 

So the incubus went as suddenly as it came. The Bel- 
field honor, caste and family crest were not to be dimmed 
or smirched at all. We must imagine Virginia’s delight 
at this information, for she was too much astonished to 
show or express it. That these bucolic plebeians should 
have the good taste and discretion to decline an invita- 
tion to sup with the select of the earth was to her unfore- 
seen and quite incomprehensible. 


14 


CHAPTER 11. 


“I can no other answer make but thanks, 

And thanks; and ever oft good turns 
Are shuffled off with such uncurrent pay.” 

— Shakespere, Twelfth Night. 

Few persons who have not borne it can fully realize the 
weight of a guardian’s responsibility. Particularly that 
of one whose ward is an accomplished girl of quality— of 
eminent respectability — and a relation. It can be appre- 
ciated only by one who has approached the noon of life, 
and has learned the world by experience, observation 
and due reflection. Such, however, was Henry Belfield. 
Seldom do the responsibilities and duties of this office 
fall upon shoulders more capable or into hands more 
competent, than his. He had been remiss in nothing. 
Since her father’s death, Phyllis had resided with him, 
and had received the same degree of paternal kindness 
and indulgence that had been the lot of his own daughter. 
Her position was such as to give her the greatest pos- 
sible advantage from her connection with so influential a 
personage. She had lacked nothing of motherly care — 
nor of sisterly criticism. Her education had been con- 
ducted along the most approved lines, and was all that 
care and money could do with the material in hand. Did 
developed character depend upon curriculum and rou- 
tine, Virginia and Phyllis would have been as much alike 
as two hungry squabs. But it did not. A silk purse is 

15 


Eminent Respectability. 

not made out of — well, anything but silk ; and no amount 
or kind of educational sandpapering could have made the 
two girls even approximately alike. In fact, instead of 
extenuating their natural differences, instruction had 
brought them more plainly into view. Both at home and 
at school, Virginia had been an apt pupil, an “easy propo- 
sition” to her instructors; but Phyllis had been, and still 
was, a despair to all, save her music teachers. Her ability 
was unquestionable. Although she could not be per- 
suaded to undergo the drudgery of memorizing details, 
she grasped the gist of a subject with a mental strength 
that commanded respect; and she often puzzled her in- 
structors with a fund of information that could not be 
reconciled with her poor recitations. However, as she 
spoke correctly (save that she did not suppress the letter 
“r,” as Virginia did, and that, in pronounciation, she fol- 
lowed the two Websters, rather than the “school marm”), 
wrote well, and was careful with her spelling, her de- 
ficiencies in scholarship would probably have given her 
god-parents little concern, even if she had not largely 
redeemed herself by her superior musical accomplish- 
ments. 

It was with respect to her attitude toward the pro- 
prieties that her shortcomings were annoying to her 
ultra-conventional aunt and cousin. No conventional 
rule of etiquette was unknown to her, but none were 
observed by reason of their conventional sanction. She 
did things in the ways that best suited her fancy; she had 
her own ideas of propriety and impropriety, and all au- 
thority was good-naturedly set at defiance. Great folly 
such conduct would have been in almost any other than 
Phyllis. Few indeed are they who have a personality 
that secures them in such liberty. But Phyllis was at 

i6 


Eminent Respectability. 

once a true child of nature, of a fibre too resisting to be 
much transformed by art, and the idol of all who inti- 
mately knew her. Her manner and movements were 
not according to rule and precept; but they had a grace 
and charm that bewitched, and won for her immunity 
from the frown of disapproval. Exquisitely beautiful, 
healthy, vivacious, clever, generous, kind, delightfully 
eccentric, and invincibly good-natured, the world capitu- 
lated to her, and voted her every fault a charm. 

In two days she would be eighteen. To a girl, eighteen 
means much. In Phyllis’s case, it meant much to many. 
Much to her uncle, who would then be partly relieved of 
his weight of responsibility, and to whom the occasion 
meant a probable early culmination of the duties of his 
guardianship. Much to her aunt and cousin, to whom 
the possibilities and probabilities of the next two or 
three years were a nightmare of hope and fear. It meant 
much to many a young scion of respectability, more or 
less eminent, who had been impatiently and covetously 
watching her budding beauty, and contemplating her 
growing charms, anxiously waiting for the day when she 
might be wooed. It meant much to many a hawk-eyed 
mamma, who had set her heart on the capture of this 
rare and dainty prize. 

Marriage at no distant day is to be expected of a girl 
of eighteen. She then faces what is usually the gravest 
problem of her life. Alas, how often she fails to realize 
this! Called upon while her faculties are yet immature, 
and her knowledge of the world is practically nil, to make 
a decision that means weal or woe; that is to result in a 
lifetime of happiness or sorrow; make of her existence 
a success or a failure, and influence for good or bad the 
fate of others yet unborn— she usually does so as light- 

17 


Eminent Respectability. 


heartedly and as jauntily as she accepts a partner for a 
dance. What should be a matter of head and conscience 
and heart is to her a matter only of heart, at best, and 
often — what is worse — entirely a matter of whim. Truly, 
under these circumstances, marriage is a lottery in which 
the chances are heavily against the player. 

Eminently respectable parents understand this. They 
know that the prevalent notion that young persons can 
be safely left to choose their mates, without parental 
guidance, and that they have an absolute moral right to 
do so, is sophistical, and fraught with serious mischief. 
They know that love is without wisdom, however it may 
be with respect to the converse. They know that neither 
the judgment nor the conscience of young folks under 
the influence of early love can be trusted; that the heart 
is fickle; and that affection, to be lasting and constant, 
must be made dependent upon a good and well-used 
head. They know, moreover, that — with eminently 
respectable people at least — marriage is very much the 
affair of persons other than the “contracting parties.” 
Are not parents, brothers and sisters, uncles and aunts, 
relatives of every degree — by blood, law and custom — to 
be exalted or scandalized, as the alliance proves to be a 
good one or a bad one? And is there not the possibility 
of papa’s household expenses being increased by the 
marriage, instead of being diminished by it? Wise 
parents consider these things. They know that, while 
mutual affection is desirable as an incident to married 
life, marriage, to be ultimately satisfactory, must be con- 
sidered primarily as a matter of business; and that gen- 
erally, if the rights of others are to be recognized, it must 
involve a compromise with many concessions. Of 
course, it is unwise to openly question popular notions. 

i8 


Eminent Respectability. 

It is safer to tacitly, or even openly, ascribe to them; as 
the world cannot be led, and fools must be left to their 
folly. But, within their own circles, these matters are 
regulated with good sense, and due regard to the rights 
of all concerned. Apart, perhaps, from some judicious 
manipulation on the part of parents or guardians, the 
initiative is generally left to the young people. This is 
but a proper concession to those who have most at stake 
in the venture, and can usually be made with safety; but 
the older and wiser — usually the purse holders — are the 
judges of dernier resort. 

In two days Phyllis would be eighteen, and her own 
navigator on the sea of life. Of all those interested in 
the circumstance, Phyllis herself seemed the least con- 
cerned about it. Did she contemplate the occasion with 
a feeling of satisfaction? or with one of regret? With 
pleasant anticipations? or with misgivings? Her man- 
ner seemed to indicate, more than anything else, that she 
gave the matter no thought at all. She was now the 
same merry, light-hearted Phyllis that she had ever been. 

Was she thoughtless? or did she avoid thinking aloud? 
Was she unconcerned about matters of serious import? 
or was it her nature to live strictly within the present? 
Or, did she consider the important matters of her imme- 
diate future already settled? However it may have been 
with the ward, the guardian was fully alive to the junc- 
ture at hand. For very good reasons, his niece was much 
admired, and she was sure to be fiercely wooed (if she 
should prove to be wooable). It was his wish that she 
marry George Junkin, the only son of his friend and legal 
adviser, Josiah Junkin, Esquire. Of this, he had never 
spoken to Phyllis, but he had given the young man every 
facility for promoting his interests through early impres- 

19 


Eminent Respectability. 


sions. The latter had for years been a frequent visitor 
at the Belfield house, where he had been made much of 
and assisted in every permissible way, with a view to his 
having the prize so well in hand, when the time came for 
an open descent upon it, that rivalry would be unavail- 
ing. Phyllis, however, though always respectful and 
good-natured, had shown a pronounced faculty for hav- 
ing her own way; and her uncle was not oblivious to the 
danger of her eccentric and precipitous ways of doing 
things proving disastrous to his cherished plans. He 
had closely watched her manner toward the young man 
for some circumstance that would indicate the state of 
his case; but it gave no token; it was characteristic and 
proper; that was all. He knew her too well, however, to 
assume anything from her apparent indifference. Her 
manner was not a reliable index to her mind. Even 
should she yield her heart, she might be depended upon 
to keep her head; and the favored one would learn noth- 
ing of his good fortune through sighs, blushes or ogles. 
However the case might stand, the season had now 
passed for this quiet “vegetation” of the affections. Time 
and custom were about to let down the bars, and the 
prize must be secured for young Junkin quickly, or it 
would be lost in a tempest of wooing or a maelstrom of 
intrigue. 

It was now near the middle of May, and summer was 
in all the gorgeous beauty and freshness of its youth. 
The day being bright and warm, Phyllis and Fido were 
at an early hour among the flowers and blossoming 
shrubbery. To her surprise, while sitting on her favorite 
rustic seat, she was joined by her uncle, whom business 
affairs rarely permitted him to loiter at home during the 
early hours of the day. He further surprised her by 
20 


Eminent Respectability. 

showing a disposition to joke, and engage in small talk; 
a thing very unusual in him, and one for which he had 
very indifferent talents. Naturally, his mien was seri- 
ous; for he was a man of affairs; of large and weighty 
affairs; affairs that allowed little time for talking non- 
sense, or observing the humorous aspect of things. His 
present strained effort to be entertaining to his niece, 
however, soon proved to have been adopted as an appro- 
priate method of introducing a delicate subject. 

“By the way, Phyllis,” he said, coming to the point 
after ten or fifteen minutes of pleasantry, “how are you 
and George getting on?” 

“George and I? Do you allude to our singing. Uncle?” 
replied his niece. 

“N — o; not particularly. With respect to each other.” 

“I do not understand you. Uncle,” said Phyllis, looking 
up inquiringly. 

“No? Nonsense, my girl! Don’t think that you can 
fool your uncle in a matter of this kind; he was young 
once himself.” 

“Really, Uncle, I can’t guess what you are driving at.” 

“Come, come, Phyllis. Do you think your uncle so 
dull that he doesn’t know the attraction when a young 
man visits the home of a pretty girl at every opportunity? 
Do you suppose that he has forgotten the language of 
the eyes, and the manner of youth, in his later and busier 
days?” 

“Indeed, Uncle, it has never occurred to me that 
George’s coming here might have any significance other 
than that of the less frequent visits of his father. I have 
regarded him only as your guest, and have supposed his 
intimacy to be simply a matter of family friendship. Now 
21 


Eminent Respectability. 

that you call attention to it — perhaps he admires Vir- 
ginia?” 

“Tut, tut, my dear! It is not to Virginia that he cooes 
so eloquently. It is not she that draws the beams of his 
eyes wdth her as she moves about. Furthermore, he 
knows the situation, as regards her, as well as we do. 
And you mean to tell your uncle that he has not declared 
his passion for you a thousand times ere this? Why! 
what a stout heart he must have! And that you have 
not read his mind from his eyes and manner? That you 
have not even suspected what has been so evident to us 
all? Don’t talk such nonsense to me, you little rogue. 
Why, really, I have supposed it all fixed but the for- 
malities. And seriously, Phyllis, I have not been dis- 
pleased with what I have supposed to be the situation; 
for George is a very worthy young man, and in every 
way what I would call a desirable suitor. He will have 
an honorable profession, with every opportunity for suc- 
cess in it; and his person, and character, and tempera- 
ment are all that could be wished for — if you like him. 
Moreover, this matter of love and marriage being one of 
so much importance — one of such uncertainties and 
grave dangers — the supposition that it was so satis- 
factorily settled has been a great relief to me.” 

“Really, Uncle, you surprise me,” said Phyllis. “I 
have seen no reason whatever for suspecting what you 
say has been clear to others; nor has even the possibility 
of it occurred to me.” 

“Indeed ? Well, well! In turn, you surprise me. And 
I don’t disguise the fact that I am considerably disap- 
pointed by what you say. For, in two days you will be 
of age, Phyllis; and, from now until the matter of your 
marriage is settled, you will be among the most danger- 

22 


Eminent Respectability. 

oils shoals of your life. You, of course, will not realize 
this; young people never do; but, to a parent or a guard- 
ian — particularly to a guardian, whose influence is not 
so strong as that of a parent — it is a matter that occasions 
the gravest anxiety. While young and unacquainted 
with the world, people seldom see marriage in its reality. 
They are apt to be influenced entirely by youthful pas- 
sions that result from peculiarities of taste as to personal 
appearance. Such passions are transitory. But they 
are usually strong, in early life, and, for that reason, 
dangerous. Like will-o’-the-wisps, they lead young peo- 
ple who are not restrained by the counsel of their elders 
into the morass of connubial infelicity, from which, as a 
rule, there is no escape but through death. The passion 
called love is but a sugar-coating, and is too often found 
to have disguised much bitterness and sorrow. Marriage 
is ultimately felicitous only when passion is either 
ignored altogether, or made subordinate to the intellect. 
The things that conduce to real and lasting happiness 
are, first, an assured provision for the necessities, and 
pleasures, and honors of life ; and, secondly, physical and 
mental characteristics that may be wisely transmitted to 
progeny. If the sugar-coating of passion accompanies 
these things, well and good; but they are the things 
which last, and make for real happiness; and which, 
therefore, are of first importance. Unfortunately for the 
majority of mortals, however, they are things with re- 
spect to which the young most grievously err. 

“I am certain, my girl, that George would make you 
a good husband. One who would insure your ultimate 
happiness. And, after all, if he has not declared himself, 
it perhaps speaks well for his prudence and self-restraint. 
When you are of age, he will be certain to do so; and, the 

23 


Eminent Respectability. 


day that I learn of your engagement to him, I will place 
$10,000 to your credit. This will enable you to start 
housekeeping without impairing George’s capital, or 
your own inheritance.” 

“You are very kind. Uncle, I am sure,” said Phyllis, 
but — ” 

“We will say no more about it now, my dear,” said 
Mr. Belfield, rising from the seat. “I must now be off 
to the train. Consider the matter well, and rest assured 
that George will speak, as soon as he feels that he has a 
right to do so.” 

With a few more words of pleasantry and a parting 
kiss, he was gone, and Phyllis, for once in her life, had 
assumed a serious aspect. She forgot the beautiful May 
flowers, and sat pensively toying with Fido’s ears until 
aroused by the call for lunch. 

In declaring her ignorance, Phyllis had spoken the 
truth; and we may therefore imagine her surprise at 
what her uncle had said. As she now meditated upon 
the situation, she felt that he must be mistaken; yet, as 
she reviewed the events of the last two years, she recalled 
many little incidents that, though supposed at the time 
to be without significance, suggested at least the possi- 
bility of his being right. The relations that had existed 
between herself and George Junkin were those of two 
very intimate young persons whose silly talk is not to be 
remembered from one day to the next. She now, for the 
first time, conceived it possible that some of the things 
said by him might have had some significance. 

Assuming that her uncle was right, the situation pre- 
sented some features that amused her. She smiled as 
she recalled several instances in which she had discon- 
certed and sidetracked George when, as it now seemed 

24 


Eminent Respectability. 

possible, he was at the point of committing himself. “Oh, 
what a delightful Romeo!” she said, inaudibly, as she 
drew a mental picture of him with his long hair parted 
in the middle, his trousers turned up, his ultra-fashion- 
able clothes, and his affected pronunciation (he was care- 
ful to say “ither”; and he called a vase a “voz,” and New 
York, “Noo Yawk”), and thought of the “very passion- 
ate” love that he had kept a secret for two years. 

She saw much more in the situation, however, that 
incited to serious thought. Her uncle might be right. 
If so, she had a definite proposition before her. But, 
suppose him to be wrong! What then? The day follow- 
ing the morrow she would be eighteen, and obliged to 
deal with the serious problems of life. Problems to be 
made a hundred times more difficult, perhaps, by the 
fact of a hundred parsons wanting to solve them for her, 
in a hundred different ways. The light-hearted girl that 
sat on that rustic seat to enjoy the beauty and fragrance 
of the May blossoms and listen to the music of the birds 
and bees, arose therefrom a woman upon whose head 
the truculent Sphinx of life had laid her awful hand. 


25 


CHAPTER III. 


“Was ever woman in this humour wooed? 

Was ever woman in this humour won?” 

— Richard III. 

Of Phyllis’s birthday party, we need say little. It was, 
of course, a very enjoyable occasion to those present; 
but it had no distinguishing feature, apart from the per- 
sonality of the hostess. To all appearances, Phyllis was 
quite her true merry self. If she had serious thoughts, 
she did not permit them to influence her demeanor. 
Never had she been more vivacious and entertaining; 
never had she looked more lovely and bewitching. Des- 
perately (but uselessly) did the young men struggle for 
more than a fair share of her attention. 

Soon after breakfast on the following morning, George 
Junkin, who had remained over night at the Belfield 
house, joined Phyllis and Fido on the lawn. In this 
there was nothing unusual, for, as we have already noted, 
he had long been on terms of the closest intimacy with 
the Belfields. On this occasion, however, Phyllis quickly 
observed something quite unusual in the young man’s 
manner and look. Possibly this was due to the fact that 
she was on the alert. Certainly she was not now to be 
taken by surprise. George was evidently in mental 
labor, with a troublesome subject; something in his mind 
was struggling for utterance, and imposing a task to 
which he seemed strangely unequal. For years he and 

26 


Eminent Respectability. 

Phyllis had been on terms of the closest intimacy. As 
children, they had romped and played together; teased 
and bantered. Together they had rambled, rowed, 
danced and sung. Yet, now, in giving utterance to the 
most commonplace remarks, he stammered, and flushed 
like a young lawyer upon his first appearance in court. 
That he possessed at least a kind of courage, he had 
amply demonstrated as a college foot-ball player: but, 
Hercules was not Eros; and, had he undertaken the 
tasks of the latter, he probably would have lost his 
laurels. 

As all experienced men can testify, it is easy to make 
love to a girl that is “meltable,” but extremely awkward 
to do the like to one that is not so, by any known art; 
and the stoutest heart must turn in despair from such a 
task as Junkin now undertook. “Phyllis,” he said, 
nervously, after vainly trying for half an hour to break 
through the defense that she artfully maintained, “let us 
sit down a while.” 

“Excuse me; I don’t wish to sit down,” she replied. 
“I want exercise.” 

“But I want to talk to you.” 

“What have you been doing for the last half hour, 
pray?” 

“But I want to talk to you about something of a dif- 
ferent nature.” 

“Then why don’t you do it?” 

“I want you to listen.” 

“Then talk.” 

“But come sit down ; I want to talk to you about some- 
thing serious.” 

“Then I don’t want to hear you. I hate serious sub- 
jects.” 


27 


Eminent Respectability. 

“But, Phyllis, it is a matter of which I must speak to 
you.” 

“Then do it some other time.” 

“Why not now?” 

“Because I am in good spirits to-day, and I don't want 
the spell broken.” 

“When will you hear me, Phyllis?” 

“When you find me in a serious mood.” 

“Oh, come, Phyllis! For Heaven’s sake, let us have 
a truce to your nonsense. I — I — I must — ” 

“And so must I — I must have a sail. The day is an 
ideal one for it. Come on, George, Mr. Johnson’s boat 
is at the wharf, with oars, sail, and everything. Come 
on; let us have a sniff of sweet meadow air.” 

Junkin knew that it would be useless to persist. How 
was he to make love to such a girl? Yet he must. He 
would not think of giving up, until he was flatly rejected. 
There must be a way, he thought, could he but fall upon 
it. Did she read his mind? More than likely; and, for 
some reason, was determined not to hear him. Little 
encouragement in this, truly. But then, Phyllis was 
unlike other girls; there was no possibility of inter- 
preting her actions; nor of accounting for them. She 
was stn generis, and unfathomable. One thing was 
certain: in love-making, as in all other things, she would 
have her own way. Perhaps in her own time she would 
thaw, and things would come out all right. It was not in 
her, he thought, to be heartless or unjust; she would not 
keep him indefinitely suspended, like Mahomet’s coffin, 
betwixt Heaven and earth. The situation was con- 
foundedly exasperating; but there was no help for it. He 
must be patient; and, in the meantime, please. 

Of course he would take her for a sail. No pastime 
28 


Eminent Respectability. 

was more delightful, on such a day; none more romantic. 
Phyllis quickly got her hat and parasol; and, the wharf 
being near by, they were soon in the boat, and adrift 
upon the river. 

Junkin’s experience at the tiller had not been con- 
siderable; but the wind was a mere zephyr, and, if need 
be, he could take down the sail and row wherever they 
might wish to go. 

“Let us go up as far as the wood,” said Phyllis. “By 
the time we reach it, the tide will change, and we can 
come back with the current.” 

Slowly through the verdant meadows they glided with 
the tide; there being little more than sufficient wind for 
controlling the course of the boat. To Phyllis, the situa- 
tion was delightful. Like all girls of her type, she 
gloried in intimate association with Mother Nature. She 
was fascinated by the beauties of her summer dress, the 
fragrance of her breath, and the music of her myriad of 
voices. 

All went well until they reached the wood. Then, as 
the tide slackened, fitful little gusts of wind began to 
cause the skiff to momentarily heel. The first faint puffs 
were quickly succeeded by harder ones, and these by 
others harder still; and the suddenness with which they 
caught the sail so disconcerted Junkin, that he could 
not think to luff or slacken the sheet, until it was too 
late. Soon the skiff was spasmodically rushing through 
the water with her lee rail awash and a seething foam 
encircling her graceful lines. This was not to the liking 
of her inexperienced skipper, who, fearing that the boat 
would run away with him, decided to take in the sail and 
row. Unfortunately, however, while he knew well 
enough how to take in the sails of a boat moored to a 
29 


Eminent Respectability. 

wharf, or with a skilled hand at the tiller, he had not 
mastered the art of doing it under the conditions that 
he now had to contend with. Hence it happened that, as 
he was about taking out the sprit, the position of the 
boat was such that a heavy flow swung her quickly 
around; and, before he could catch the tiller, her bow 
was driven into the mud, at a point on the left, or north- 
ern, bank of the river where it makes a bend to the left, 
and sweeps in toward the hills. At this point, a stout 
stake had, for some purpose, been driven firmly into the 
mud and now protruded about a foot above the water. 
Against this stake, the boat, her bow fast in the mud and 
her stem caught by the now ebbing tide, was impinged, 
and prevented from being swung around side to the 
shore. The puffs of wind had now run together into a 
continuous, though squally, breeze, and the violently 
flapping sail, and swinging boom, threatened momentary 
mischief. To make the situation worse, the lines quickly 
fouled, and Junkin lost his head. Unable to handle the 
sail, he tried to loosen the skiff from her position with an 
oar, while Phyllis crouched low to avoid the violently 
swinging boom. At this juncture, a voice was heard 
calling from the brow of the bluff eighty or ninety yards 
distant, “Either take out your sprit, or cut your main- 
sheet, man; or you will be capsized.” The latter, Junkin 
proceeded to do; but, before he had accomplished it, the 
boat swung loose and around into the stream. The next 
instant, a hard puff caught her sail full, when it could not 
be eased; and, in the twinkling of an eye, she was laid 
on her beam’s end, and her occupants were thrown into 
the water. 

When they came to the surface, Junkin was within a 
few feet of the muddy shore, which he made in safety; 

30 


Eminent Respectability. 

but Phyllis was caught in the current, where she could 
not reach bottom with her feet and rapidly carried down 
the stream. Being fond of the water, and having always 
lived near it, she had, fortunately, learned to swim a 
little; but, in her present costume, she found herself able 
to do no more than float with her head above water, 
while her escort was floundering in the mud, either 
unable to come to her assistance, or afraid to venture 
it. However, she did not lose her presence of mind; 
nor was she to be left to her fate. The person who had 
called to them from the bluff, and who proved to be a 
young farmer at work in the field that here bordered on 
the river, ran down to the water, at a point where it 
swung eastward along the hill, and about one hundred 
yards below where the mishap occurred. Seeing that 
Phyllis was contriving to keep her head above water, he 
called out to her to not attempt swimming; but to just 
quietly float, and have no fear. In the meantime, he 
quickly pulled off his boots; and, running along the 
shore toward her as far as the character of the ground 
would permit, he entered the water and swam out to 
meet her as she drifted down. A few strokes brought 
him close by her side; and, first assuring her of her 
safety, and warning her against getting in the least 
excited, he directed her how to take hold of him, and the 
two were soon safe on shore. 

Plaving avoided exertion as much as possible, in obedi- 
ence to instructions, Phyllis felt little or no fatigue; and 
her rescuer, seeing that she was in need of no immediate 
assistance, again plunged into the river. Phyllis, observ- 
ing that he was in pursuit of her hat, which was drifting 
some twenty yards out in the stream, protested vigor- 
ously against such needless exertion. But the young 

31 


Eminent Respectability. 


farmer gave no heed to her scolding. A few strokes 
took him to the coveted hat; a few more brought him to 
the shore again ; and, handing her the prize with a bow, 
he said smilingly, in reply to her depreciation of its 
worth, that she would doubtless appreciate it as a me- 
mento of her pleasant adventure. She thanked him, 
and looking him in the face, said with an expressive 
smile, as she held up two fingers, “within a year.” The 
young man understood her; for, within the time men- 
tioned, he had dragged Virginia from the same river, 
under somewhat similar circumstances; but he made no 
reply, and proceeded at once to meet the emergency at 
hand. “Now, Miss Belfield,” he said, “you must hurry 
to our house and get into some of Emily’s clothing. The 
water is yet cold for swimming, and your wet garments 
are of course uncomfortable. Besides, it would be un- 
wise for you to remain in them longer than is unavoid- 
able. I will drive over to your house for another outfit 
— unless you prefer to remain until these are dry again.” 

To this, Phyllis assented; and she was about starting 
of¥, when she suddenly broke into screaming laughter. 
“0 Phoebe mi magnihce! Noli me tangereP^ she cried, 
pointing to Junkin, who was now approaching, wet, hat- 
less, muddy and crestfallen. He, however, did not laugh. 
Nor would he agree with Phyllis that there was anything 
laughable in the situation. Possibly his sense of humor 
was solidified by the low temperature of the water; 
which effect, however, neither dampness nor danger had 
wrought upon the pretty companion of his misadventure. 

The boat having grounded a short distance from 
where she capsized, the young farmer sent a hand to 
help Junkin right and bail her, and procure oars with 
which to row back to the landing; but, the day being 

32 


Eminent Respectability. 

bright and warm, an offer to send him dry clothing was 
declined. 

In the meantime, Phyllis hastened to the farm house 
near by, where she was well known; and was soon dry 
and comfortable, with neither health nor spirits any the 
worse for her involuntary bath. 


33 


CHAPTER IV. 

“This is my beloved son, in whom I am well pleased.” — Bible. 

Joel Webster was respectable. He was honest. But 
Probitas landatnr, et alget (Honesty is praised, and left to 
starve), as the old Latin adage says; and, consequently, 
his respectability was not of the eminent variety. His 
experience with the world had now run through a period 
of three score and five years; that of his good wife Eliza- 
beth — ^Betsey, as she was familiarly called — one four or 
five years shorter. For forty-two or three years they 
had worked together on joint account; severally sharing 
the costs — the labors, the cares, the vigils — and jointly 
taking the profits — ^the pleasures and satisfactions from 
hopes realized — and the losses — the pains and disap- 
pointments from hopes shattered. 

Which of these preponderated, it was beyond their 
competency in mathematics to determine. But they 
were now nearing the last chapter in the book of life; 
their fate was not a horoscope, but a history; the interro- 
gation marks had one by one been replaced by periods; 
and, while each had only the highest praise for the part 
played by the other, their calm and dispassionate judg- 
ment was, that, if some Mephistopheles could restore to 
them their youth, on the condition that their past experi- 
ence with the world should be repeated, such service 
would not be worth a price. Not that they had been 
less wise or, on the whole, more unfortunate than a large 
proportion of their fellows; not that either of them had 

34 


Eminent Respectability. 

suffered considerably from any weakness or malady of 
the body; not that they were blind to the beautiful, deaf 
to the harmonious, dead to the humorous, or in any way 
incapable of enjoying the really good things of the 
world ; not that they were constitutionally pessimistic, or 
predisposed to cant. Nor was it that Nature had in any 
way been unkind to them. She had rewarded their pru- 
dence with good health; their upright lives with quiet 
consciences; their industry with abundant crops. The 
explanation of their rather gloomy view of life was most 
likely due to the fact that they were thoughtful, observ- 
ing, morally and intellectually honest, and out of accord 
with the “spirit of the times,” because of their devotion 
to antiquated ethical ideals. The misfortunes that had 
brought bitterness to their lives had been due to the ag- 
gressiveness and moral turpitude of their fellow mortals 
— confidence in whose good intentions had been the 
principal weakness of both. Of direct acts of aggression, 
they, with one exception, had never complained. Against 
such, they, like most of their fellows, were fairly able 
to defend themselves. It was to those indirect aggres- 
sions that are felt through general conditions brought 
about in devious and insidious ways by the crafty, and 
which cannot be individually resisted, that Joel Webster 
had come to attribute most of the troubles that consti- 
tuted the debit side of the account. 

About twenty years before, he had bought the farm 
that he now occupied, paying, in addition to a mortgage 
for $7000, cash to the amount $6000, which, together with 
their stock, farming utensils, furniture, etc., included the 
small patrimonies of himself and wife, and their savings 
from twenty years of toil. Entering into such a con- 
tract, though by no means an unusual proceeding, was 
35 


Eminent Respectability. 


very unwise. Potatoes, wheat, corn, cattle, hogs, etc., 
etc., were things with the character of which he was 
familiar, and with which he knew how to deal. Had he 
agreed to pay 7000 bushels of wheat, or a stipulated 
number of hogs, he probably would have made no mis- 
take; but, in promising to pay dollars at some future time, 
he had walked into the meshes of a web that has been 
the ruin of millions of his race. 

There is probably nothing in the whole category of 
wealth so dangerous to the inexperienced trafficker as 
dollars. Their exchange power depends upon their 
character, and the adjustment of quantity to public 
needs; which things are regulated by public function- 
aries who owe their high positions and emoluments to 
the contributions and favors of those who make dealing 
in dollars the business of their lives. Hence, the outsider 
who promises to pay dollars puts himself in a position 
similar to that of one who plays poker with an opponent 
who is in secret communication with a confederate. A 
dollar is an “invariable quantity of a given metal.” Very 
well; but, unfortunately for Joel Webster, it meant a 
variable quantity of wheat and pork. When he bought 
his farm, the country’s dollars amounted to over fifty for 
each person. They had since been reduced to less than 
twenty-three for each person. ThcUy $6500 meant one- 
half of his farm. NoWy $6000, the balance still unpaid, 
meant probably the whole of it. When he bought it, 

10.000 bushels of wheat would have paid for it. Now, 

20.000 bushels would be required for the realization of 
the purchase price, while the productivity of the farm had 
not materially increased. True, the avoirdupois of a 
dollar is fixed; but its exchange power is as flexible as a 
rubber band. A gold dollar,” says the bond holder, “is 

36 


Eminent Respectability. 

always worth a dollar.” So would a putty dollar be, we 
trow, if the authorities should make a given quantity of 
putty '‘the dollar” 

None of this, however, was understood by Joel Web- 
ster. He knew that he had produced much, consumed 
little, and that there was no remainder. He could not 
figure it out; but he had come to strongly suspect that 
there were tricks in the industrial system, and that he 
had, in some manner, been made a victim. His farm had 
been kept in a good state of cultivation; his buildings 
and fences, in good repair. He had hired nothing done 
that he and his family could do within themselves. He 
had seen the productive power of his labor enor- 
mously increased by inventions. But now, in contem- 
plating the net result of forty years of toil, he saw that 
he was a modern Sisyphus masquerading before the 
world as a free American citizen. Yet, he did not com- 
plain. When he expressed his opinions, he did so in the 
manner of a comment on general conditions and public 
affairs; never in that of airing personal grievances; and, 
but for his solicitude for those whom he loved, and his 
obligations as husband and father, the situation would 
probably have caused him little concern. 

As a husband and father he was dutiful and kind, lov- 
ing and loved. As a neighbor, he was highly respected. 
As a citizen, he was the ideal of the school-book and the 
newspaper (just before elections). We should guess, 
however, that he would not be likely to stand the real 
test of popular appreciation, by being elected to public 
office. Voters, it is reasonably certain, would have seen 
the appropriateness of his being a tax payer, rather than 
a tax regulator, or a tax consumer. 

His son, Alex, was a lusty youth of twenty-two whose 

37 


Eminent Respectability. 

force of character had already made him well known 
throughout the locality of B— . His unusual personality 
was recognized by all; but there were, with respect to it, 
differences of opinion that corresponded to the consti- 
tutional differences of men. That he was industrious, 
intelligent, obliging, dignified, truthful, and frank, was 
admitted by all; but there were those who did not admit 
all these qualities to be virtues. For instance, on more 
than one occasion had his open truthfulness been a seri- 
ous annoyance to others; while his rugged — almost 
fierce — frankness was a terror to prevaricators and 
hypocrites. Some thought him unsociable; for which 
opinion, there were, in fact, some grounds; although he 
was always truly — though not always conventionally — 
polite. Others said, that “he thought himself better” 
than they — which was indeed a truth that he made no 
attempt to disguise — and still others, because of his de- 
votion to books, and his persistent efforts in getting an 
education, charged him, though unjustly, with thinking 
himself above the occupation of his father. 

In the matter of getting an education, he had made ex- 
ceptional progress, despite serious difficulties. His father 
had been able to give him very little assistance; but this, 
though an inconvenience, had not been an obstacle. He 
had prepared for college at home, and most of the money 
that he had spent, had, in various ways, been earned by 
himself. Hence, he had early learned the efficacy of 
industry, thrift, and persistency. His college course, 
however, he had not been able to complete. Times were 
such that he must either stay at home with his father, 
or the latter must get into debt; and, for reasons that 
had seemed to him good, he had decided against the 
alternative. His deficiency with respect to the college 

38 


Eminent Respectability. 

curriculum had, however, from the standpoint of true 
culture, been more than compensated for by his exten- 
sive home readings on a great variety of subjects. Years 
before, he had looked forward to becoming a school- 
master, and later, he had thought seriously of the bar; 
but both of these programs had been abandoned, upon 
his coming to a more careful consideration of his talents 
and tastes. But, as a glance at his growing library would 
have shown, he had not, even temporarily, abandoned 
his pursuit of knowledge. Indeed, this would have shown 
more; it would have shown the explanation of his grow- 
ing contempt for orthodox opinions and popular ideals. 

Physically, as well as mentally, he was a fine specimen 
of robust young manhood. His erect and symmetrical 
form was five feet ten inches in height; and his move- 
ments had a masculine grace, force, and decision, that 
indicated nervous vigor, and corresponded to the quick 
glance and steady, fearless gaze of his brown eyes. His 
strong neck was surmounted by a fine head, which was 
covered with brown hair; and, as one contemplated his 
features, his serious mien and his fine, vigorous body, as 
he walked about in his shirt sleeves, and with his trous- 
ers tucked into the tops of his boots, the thought was, 
“What a Greek this man would have made 

Before night, the adventure narrated in the preceding 
chapter was the principal subject of conversation 
throughout the vicinity of B — . Of course, the fact that 
Alex had now saved both of the Belfield girls from 
probable drowning, made the incident particularly note- 
worthy. His skill and courage were highly commended. 
The older folks were eulogistic; the younger, envious — 
males, of Alex; females, of Phyllis. Alex himself made 
no allusion to the incident ; and, when politeness required 
39 


Eminent Respectability. 


a reply to some inquiry relative thereto, he gave it as 
briefly as possible and dropped the subject. 

That evening, while Mrs. Webster and Emily were 
still engaged with their supper work, and Mr. Webster 
and Alex were lingering by the kitchen lamp, a neigh- 
boring farmer named Fullerton (“Jimmy,” his neighbors 
called him) presented himself at the open door, and, after 
the customary salutation, entered, in compliance with 
an invitation, and took a chair near Alex, and by an 
open window. He was a slender man with a long lean 
face, pendant nose, keen blue eyes, and chin whiskers 
stained by tobacco juice — the typical Jersey farmer of 
the cartoonist. 

“Joel,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “I was goin’ 
by, on my way to town, an^ dropped in to see if ye want 
to sell some of them pigs. I see ye have quite a 
sprinklin’ of ’em, an’ I, havin’ had bad luck with mine, am 
quite some short.” 

“Well, I don’t know — how ’bout it, Alex?” replied Mr. 
Webster, turning to his son. 

“I don’t think we have too many. Father,” Alex re- 
plied; “but, as Mr. Fullerton has had bad luck, it will 
probably be well to let him have three or four.” 

“All right. How will four do, Jimmy?” said Mr. 
Webster. 

“First rate,” was the reply. “I’d like to have more; 
but beggars mus’n’t be choosers. How much do ye want 
fer ’em?” 

“Well, the usual price, I s’pose. Eh, Alex?” 

“1 suppose so.” 

“About two and a half apiece. They are nice pigs, and 
really worth more; but that’ll be all right — if it’s satis- 
factory to you.” 


40 


Eminent Respectability. 

“Yahas, that’s all right,” said Fullerton. “I’ll come or 
send over fer ’em in the mornin’. Much obliged to ye, 
Joel.” “By the way, Alex,” he continued, poking his 
thumb against Alex’s ribs, “I hear ye’ve been actin’ hero 
ag’in.” 

“Do you?” replied Alex, without shifting his glance 
from the paper before him. 

“Ya-h-as. Why, you’re a hummer, fer certain. Say, 
Alex,” he continued, winking at Mr. Webster, and squirt- 
ing a mouthful of tobacco juice out of the window, “a 
pair is alius wuth playin’ on, an’ sich a purty pair o’ 
queens as you’ve drawed from the river ought to win 
somethin’, eh? Ha, ha, ha!” 

Alex’s only response was a simple nasal ejaculation, 
for which we have no alphabetical representatives. 

“You’ll no doubt git a crown in the next world,” con- 
tinued Fullerton, with another wink at Mr. Webster, 
“but ye ought to have a jewel in this. Eh, boy? Ha, 
ha, ha!” “The youngest one,” he went on, Alex having 
made no reply, “the one ye fished out to-day, is a mighty 
nice gal, Alex.” 

“Everybody says so,” Alex replied; “and that is one 
particular in which I agree with everybody.” 

“Indeed, she’s a lovely girl,” said Emily, coming, girl- 
like, to the support of her sex. “I would be delighted to 
have her for a sister-in-law.” 

“Ah, well,” said Mrs. Webster, “they belong to a 
different set from us.” 

“Well,” observed Fullerton, “they kin go further and 
fare a good eel wus.” 

“Phyllis is one of the nicest girls that ever was, and not 
a bit stuck up,” insisted Emily. 

“I see,” said Alex, with a view to forcing a change of 

41 


Eminent Respectability. 

subject, “that Editor Smyth has been appointed Minister 
to E— 

“Ah?” said Mr. Webster. 

“That kin easily be accounted fer,” said Fullerton. 
“He’s an organ fer the tariff thieves; an’ the laborer’s 
worthy of his hire, among them as well as among honest 
folks.” 

“General G — has been appointed consul to S — ” con- 
tinued Alex. 

“You don’t say!” exclaimed the other men in a breath. 

“Well, well!” added Mr. Webster, “it’s strange that 
they can’t find decent men for such places. Why, he’s 
one of the meanest rascals out of jail!” 

“Of course,” replied Alex. “That is why he was ap- 
pointed.” “O. S. Carrigan,” he continued, “gets a place in 
the interior department. Nothing to do, and a salary of 
$3000 per year, together with all he can steal from the 
Indians, and all the bribes that he can collect from lum- 
ber thieves, et al.” 

“What! not the Carrigan who was mixed up in the 
postal frauds?” said Mr. Webster. 

“The same.” 

“Well— I declare!” 

“It looks as if the next president will have to make 
a general jail delivery to git men fer the places,” said 
Fullerton. “This one will have about used up all the 
rascals loose.” 

“Hello!” said Alex, “here is something that will inter- 
est you. Father. Do you remember what I told you 
about Carey’s suit against Belfield?” 

“Yes; you said he wouldn’t get anything.” 

“Well, here you are. The Supreme Court sets the 
42 


Eminent Respectability. 

verdict aside, on the ground that it was not warranted 
by the evidence. Just what I told you, Father.” 

“ThaFs too bad; for, if there ever was a just verdict, 
that was one.” “I always thought,” continued Mr. Web- 
ster, “that, under our Constitution, the jury — twelve 
good and true men — were to pass upon the facts at issue 
in a suit; but it seems not.” 

''Under the Constitution, they undoubtedly would,” said 
Alex. “But, as I have often told you. Father, if the Con- 
stitution ever did fit this country, it has long since been 
outgrown — split fore and aft — and is now but a rag that 
scarcely suggests an original pattern. No case is tried 
under the shelter of the Constitution, even as now ‘liber- 
ally interpreted,^ when either of the litigants objects, and 
has ‘pull’ enough to draw it aside. As Chatham truly 
said, constitutions are useless, except as a practice theme 
for young orators and lyceums. As a matter of good 
politics, a jury is always drawn (if either party demands 
it, and the amount in controversy exceeds $20) — unless 
suit is brought against a thing — and they are flattered by 
being permitted to ‘find the facts ’ — provided ahvays, how- 
ever, that they find according to the wishes of the judge; 
and the judge’s wishes are the wishes of his friends, or 
of those who made him judge. When they find other- 
wise, their verdict is set aside, and the case is submitted 
to a more pliant jury. When they finally get a verdict 
that suits them— if they ever do— they record it with a 
funereal expression, and descant upon the ‘blindness of 
Justice’ and the ‘majesty of the law.’ ” 

“That’s right, Alex,” said Fullerton, again spitting out 
of the window. “That’s just right. An’, as everybody 
knows, Belfield put Judge G— on the bench. It’s come 
to sich a pass, by George, that a poor man, or an honest 
43 


Eminent Respectability. 


one, don^t have no show in court any more, nohow.” 

“Thafs because the poor man don^t put the judges on 
the bench, and the rich man does,” replied Alex. 

‘‘Why,” said Mr. Webster, “the poor man has his vote, 
and he^s in a big majority.” 

“And he necessarily votes for whomsoever is sub- 
mitted to him by professional politicians; and they sub- 
mit whom they are told to submit by those who bribe 
them, or furnish the sinews of politics.” 

“Well, whafs the country cornin’ to, anyhow?” said 
Fullerton. “Here’s us farmers workin’ fourteen to fif- 
teen hours a day at the hardest kind of work, sweatin’ 
and frettin’ fer our bread and rags, and lots of them 
monopolists makin’ more in one day, without havin’ to 
sweat, than one of us makes in two years. Some of the 
railroad presidents git $50,000 a year, and have little or 
nuthin’ to do but spend their money. One feller gits 
$75,000 to preside over twelve monthly meetin’s of the 
Sugar Trust directors, an’ I reckon his work is generally 
done by the vice-president, at that. Some of them Wall 
Street fellers, I understan’, make as much as $5,000,000 
a year, which is about ten thousand times as much as the 
most prosperous farmer in this county makes. I tell ye, 
it ain’t right.” 

“Why, I saw in the paper not long ago,” said Mrs. 
Webster, stopping her work, and looking at the men, 
“that one of them New York women spent — I think it 
was $20,000 — on one ball. That’s just scandalous! Why, 
it would pay our interest for more than fifty years ! It’s 
shameful! And there are so many poor people that 
can’t get decent clothes, and pay their doctors.” 

“Well,” said Mr. Webster, “I suppose that’s all right; 
it puts the money into circulation, and helps business.” 
44 


Eminent Respectability. 

“Would the money not circulate just as well, if it were 
not first collected into a few hands?” inquired his son. 
“And, would it not be better to have it circulate out of 
the hands of one worker into the hands of another, for 
an equivalent, than to have it pass through the hands of 
a non-producer as so much tribute?” 

“Well, I suppose it might,” replied Mr. Webster, “but 
what are we going to do about it?” 

“Talk,” said Alex. “We’ll just talk until things are 
ripe for some Caesar — or perhaps some Attila or Ghen- 
ghis Khan — to smash the rotten old legal structure to 
pieces, and let the world start over again.” 

“Well,” said Fullerton, “if somethin’ ain’t done, an’ that 
purty soon, there’ll be trouble. I understan’ that ninety- 
five per cent, of the wealth of this country is owned by 
one per cent, of the population. Now, what is wealth, 
but the products of labor? An’ any fool knows that one 
per cent, of the people don’t do ninety-five per cent, of 
the work; an’, what’s more, that the one per cent, that 
git the ninety-five per cent, don’t do one-tenth of one per 
cent, of the work that produces the hull. Now, the people 
ain’t a-goin’ to stan’ this sort o’ thing forever; an’ unless 
somethin’s done afore long, somebody’ll get hung.” 

“Your percentages,” said Alex, smiling, “are, I think, 
considerably out of line with the truth, Mr. Fullerton. 
In this, however, you are only following the ridiculous 
and misleading reports of the census takers, who don’t 
know the difference between actual wealth and capital- 
ized privileges— between a load of hay and a patch of 
mountain side. Nevertheless, you are right, as to the 
striking injustice in our distribution of wealth. Men 
are indeed remunerated in a ratio inverse to their use- 
fulness. But, do you think that hanging would help 
matters, Mr. Fullerton?” 


^5 


Eminent Respectability. 

“Yahas, I believe it would,” said Fullerton. “Cuttin’ 
off a few thousand heads durin^ the French Revolution 
helped matters amazingly. France made more progress, 
in the way of makin’ her people comfortable, durin’ them 
two years of upset than in any century of her existence.” 

“Whom would you hang?” 

“Why, the damned rascals that are responsible for this 
condition o’ things.” 

“Who are they?” 

“The millionaires, of course.” 

“And the politicians, who have conspired with them?” 

“Yahas, them, too.” 

“And the voters who knowingly put rascally poli- 
ticians in power?” 

“Well, I dunno,” said Fullerton, again spitting out of 
the window. “Mebbe that’s goin’ a little too fur. We 
might lose some purty good neighbors, an’ have no re- 
publicans left to keep us dimocrats honest. Eh, Joel? 
Ha, ha, ha!” 

“Ah, you are hard on us republicans, Jimmy,” said Mr. 
Webster. “But you see; your hanging theory wouldn’t 
work.” 

“On the contrary,” said Alex, “I think it would work 
admirably, if carried out logically. Should the mon- 
opolists first be hanged for robbing the people, then the 
politicians for abetting the monopolists, then guilty 
voters for knowingly putting rascals in office — hangmen 
being thus turned into victims, until all who had directly 
or indirectly assisted in the robbery were disposed of — 
the evil would be cured most effectually. There might 
be some Eves left; but I doubt if there would be a mar- 
riageable Adam to repeople the world — if the last exe- 
cutioner were just enough to commit suicide.” 

46 


Eminent Respectability. 

“Ah, Alex/’ said Mr. Webster, “you are becoming a 
pessimist. Things are bad, that is true; but they have 
been worse. The remedy is the ballot box. All that is 
needed is that we put honest men in office.” 

“How will you go about it?” 

“Put them up, and vote for them, of course.” 

“You’ve been voting now for forty-four years. Father. 
In that time, how many really honest men have you 
voted for?” 

“Well, I voted for neighbor Fullerton, for overseer,” 
replied Mr. Webster, smiling. 

“And hasn’t he told us, on his own motion, that, when- 
ever he has little or nothing for his team to do on the 
farm, he runs it out somewhere on the roads for a few 
hours, and collects $6.00 from the township? Does that 
come within your definition of honesty?” 

For a moment, farmer Fullerton’s thin lips were 
pressed tightly together, and his long nose and whiskers 
twitched nervously; then, squirting another mouthful of 
tobacco juice out of the window, he exploded into a loud 
guffaw. Mr. and Mrs. Webster expostulated with their 
son for thus becoming personal, insisting that neighbor 
Fullerton had told this only as a joke. 

The conversation had just been turned upon another 
subject, when it was interrupted by a loud noise from 
toward the barn. Alex hastily reached for his hat. 

“It’s that new mare kicking, Alex,” said Mr. Webster. 
“She’s been at it before. I suppose Rosey annoys her. 
You’d better shift her to the end stall, and put Bill where 
she is. If she still kicks, we will have to put her in the 
barn yard, until we find out what her trouble is.” 

Alex was off in an instant to carry out his father’s sug- 
gestion. 


47 


Eminent Respectability. 

“A mighty likely boy, that o’ yourn, Joel,” said Fuller- 
ton, when he was gone. 

“Yes, Alex is a fine boy,” replied Mr. Webster. 

“And the best of sons,” added Mrs. Webster. 

“And of brothers,” said Emily. 

“Fve alius allowed that there ain’t his equal in the 
township,” Mr. Fullerton continued. “He ain’t no slouch, 
any way ye take him. That speech I heard him make 
in the town last fall was a rattler. In fact, the best I’ve 
ever heard from one of his age. That boy’s got sumthin’ 
in him, Joel, an’ they’ll be runnin’ him fer office, some o’ 
these days.” 

“I don’t think that at all likely,” replied Mr. Webster. 
“He wouldn’t suit the politicians. He’s too straight up 
and down; too independent, and too outspoken. Fur- 
thermore, he ain’t orthodox, in anything.” 

“Oh, well, a good many of us was more or less that 
way at his age. But he’ll grow out of all that^ as he gits 
older and comes to learn the lay of the land.” 

“I think not. If I know Alex, he’ll never temporize; 
and when his mind is made up, nothing on earth can 
change it. He gets some very queer notions into his 
head; but he has a faculty for hitting pretty close, for all.” 

“Uncomfortable close,” said Fullerton, with another 
squirt, and a laugh. “Savin’ that gal to-day is a big 
feather in his cap,” he continued, “an’ a handsome, eddi- 
eated feller like him ought to marry one of ’em, Joel. 
One o’ them would be a big catch; he’d be fixed fer life.” 

“That ain’t likely, either,” replied Mr. Webster. “The 
Belfields, you know, are very stiff people, and move in 
an exclusive circle. Alex don’t seem to care for girls, 
anyhow; and, besides, I think these Belfield girls are 
both bespoke. Ain’t they, Emily?” 


Eminent Respectability. 

“I think they are, Father; that’s the rumor,” replied 
Emily. 

At this juncture, Alex reappeared; and ascertaining 
that Fullerton was on his way to town, he invited hinv 
self to a seat in his cutter, and the two were soon off 
down the road. 

The labors of the day at last coming to a close, and 
Emily being engaged on the porch with a caller, Mrs. 
Webster seated herself in an easy chair near her husband 
to have a brief chat before going to bed. They had 
talked over the various events of the day, and the con- 
versation had begun to flag, when Mr. Webster sud- 
denly aroused from a momentary lapse into quiet 
thought. 

“Betsey,” he said, knocking the ashes from his pipe, 
“I ain’t disposed to accept the present situation as re- 
gards Alex. The boy ain’t getting justice, and I don’t 
feel that I am doing as I should by him.” 

“What do you intend to do, Joel?” asked Mrs. Web- 
ster, without looking up. 

“Ask Henry Belfield what he intends to do.” 

“Suppose he refuses to do anything?” 

“Well, Betsey, it’s a hard situation; but I’ve made up 
my mind to take the bull by the horns, and try to make 
him do something.” 

“Well, Joel,” said Mrs. Webster, after a moment of 
reflection, “do what you think best. I fear the conse- 
quences of crossing Henry Belfield, but I will hope for 
the best.” 

“I know it’s hard to tussle successfully with a man so 
rich and powerful as he is; but I’ve made up my mind 
that he shall do right by Alex, whatever may^ happen. 
I used to nurg^ the idea of getting revenge on him, and 
49 


Eminent Respectability. 


looked upon Alex as the seed that would bruise the 
serpent’s head; but, as you know, things took a dif¥erent 
turn from what we expected, and revenge now seems 
doubtful. Of course, he bought that mortgage simply 
to keep me under his thumb. If I could only reduce it 
another thousand or fifteen hundred, I could shake loose 
from him; but the way land is selling now it would be 
impossible to raise more than $4500 on a new mortgage.” 

“And even if you could, Joel, how do you think Alex 
would take it, if he found out — ” 

“That’s what I fear most of all; and, as long as it’s 
gone this far, it’s to be hoped that he won’t have to know. 
Howsomever, he must have some measure of justice, and 
this is the time that the most can be done for him. Give 
him a fair chance, and he will take care of himself all 
right; but he ought to have a profession — which I can’t 
afford to give him — and something to live on while he’s 
getting fairly started.” 

“Suppose you succeeded in getting something for him, 
do you think that you could prevent his finding out 
where it comes from?” 

“Well, that might be a little troublesome, but I think 
I could. I’ll risk it anyhow.” 

“Well, do as you think best, Joel. As I say, I have 
fears; but I recognize the truth of what you say. This 
ought to be a good time to try, if it is to be done at all, 
Alex having saved Phyllis’s life to-day. Dear me ! surely, 
if he had any heart at all, he’d be glad to do something 
for him, and something handsome, too, now that he has 
saved both the girls.” 

“He would do something, no doubt, if Alex would take 
it as a reward; but this he won’t do. It may be, how- 
50 


Eminent Respectability. 

ever, that Belfield won’t be particularly pleased with this 
job of to-day.” 

“Why, Joel! What do you mean?” 

“Well, Betsey, one don’t need to be a mental giant to 
see what would have happened under the law of gravita- 
tion, had the girl been taken from the river a corpse.” 

“J-o-e-1 Webster! you don’t mean to say — ” 

“I don’t mean to say anything, Betsey, except that I 
know Henry Belfield pretty well; and, as everybody 
knows, had his niece been drowned, he would have 
profited to the extent of her whole fortune ; and it would 
not have been the first time that he had profited by a 
drowning. Hello! there goes nine o’clock, Betsey. We 
must to bed. I’ll go over to see him to-morrow even- 
ing; the sooner begun, the sooner it will be done.” 

“Dear me,” said Mrs. Webster, meditatively, “what a 
wicked, wicked world this is!” 


0 


I 


CHAPTER V. 


“From ignorance our comfort flows; 

The only wretched are the wise.” — Prior. 

By the evening of the following day, the misadventure 
of Phyllis and Junkin had ceased to be a subject of con- 
versation among the Belfields. In fact, surprisingly little 
had been said about it at all. Manifestly, the incident 
occasioned disagreeable thoughts, other than those of 
Phyllises narrow escape from drowning. Mainly, the ex- 
pressions of horror occasioned by this were perfunctory; 
but the coldness with which the details were received 
was real, and plainly suggestive of a feeling of dissatis- 
faction. Phyllis and Junkin had been mildly reproved 
by Mr. and Mrs. Belfield for taking such a dangerous 
risk, and Phyllis had been severely criticised by her 
cousin (who momentarily forgot the circumstances of 
her own misadventure). With this, the subject had been 
put aside, figuratively speaking, like a thing foul and 
fetid. Excepting a feeble effort on the part of Mrs. 
Belfield, there was no word of praise for the hero, nor of 
admiration for Phyllis’s coolness and presence of mind, 
without which she would almost certainly have beeen 
drowned. 

Strange conduct, some may think this, but it was not. 
On the contrary, it was quite comprehensible, on the 
theory of a relationship between this manifest displeas- 
ure and the behavior of young Junkin in the jDresence of 
danger. All, except Phyllis, felt that his discreditable 

52 


Eminent Respectability. 

conduct would possibly endanger the consummation of 
Mr. Belfield’s plans; and the young man himself, feeling 
that, until time should have in a measure obscured his 
delinquency, it would be better for him to be away from 
the scene, had left for home immediately upon receiving 
an outfit of clothing. So now, birthday party and mis- 
adventure having, to all appearances, passed into ob- 
livion, occupation and conversation at the Belfield home 
were again quite “as usual.” 

In no particular, perhaps, was the difference between 
Phyllis and Virginia more marked than in the fact that 
the former rarely spoke of the past or future, and the 
latter seldom of the present. To Virginia, the present 
was always dull and charmless. One of her most pro- 
nounced characteristics was a passionate desire to peer 
into the depths of the “yet to come.” From her, the 
astrologist, the palmist, and everyone who, with the least 
plausibility, claimed visional power to penetrate its 
gloom, were sure of an eager ear and ready money. That 
such powers were really possessed by mortals, she never 
doubted. Like all enthusiasts, when conviction failed 
she supplied the want of it with faith. At home, one of 
her favorite pastimes was casting horoscopes. Not from 
the stars, how^ever, but from the lees of her teacup. 
These she interpreted by an established system — ^whether 
originated by her or borrowed, we know not — and ap- 
parently had as firm a faith in their augeries as ever 
devotee had in the Revelations of Saint John. 

“Oh, Phyllis, dear, I have a husband for you,” she said 
that evening, after intently studying the remains in the 
cups while lingering at the table. 

“For goodness sake, let’s have him!” cried Phyllis. 

“Middle height—” 

“Shawl he should be above it. Light or dark?” 

53 


Eminent Respectability. 


“Dark.” 

“That’s good; for I’m light, you know. Eyes?” 

“Dark also.” 

“Good again. Stout? or slender?” 

“That isn’t so clear. He is not handsome, but he has 
a very distinguished look.” 

“Oh, dear me! he won’t do.” 

“He will give you a high position in the world, dear.” 

“Oo — oo !” exclaimed Phyllis, shivering, “that won’t do 
neither. My blood is too thin for high altitudes. You 
must be mistaken. Gin; let me see that cup.” “O — h!” she 
cried, jubilantly, as she took the cup, “Why, Gin, this is 
your cup! Take it, my dear, with my congratulations. 
This beautiful prospect is yours. Ha, ha, ha!” 

Virginia, seeing her mistake, began shaking the cup, 
with a view to rearranging its contents. 

“Oh no, dear,” said Phyllis; “that won’t do. If we 
are to make husbands to our liking, I can tell you at 
once what mine will be like — but I won’t; I’d rather keep 
you in suspense.” 

With the polite formality of asking to be excused, 
Phyllis arose from the table, leaving Virginia deeply 
absorbed in the contents of her cup. “Dark, of middle 
height — not handsome, but distinguished looking — ha, 
ha, ha! Very good. I shall remember. Gin. Ha, ha, 
ha! Why, Gin, it’s the Count! Monte Carlo, you know. 
Why, to be sure! You will succeed. Gin. I congratu- 
late you. But I really regret the high position, dear, as 
I shall want to be with you a good deal. Ha, ha, ha!” 

Saying which, Phyllis took up her David Copperfield 
and repaired to the porch, to alternately sigh and laugh 
over the tribulations of Peggotty and Micawber. 

It had been another warm and bright day; but, as 

54 


Eminent Respectability. 

night approached, the sky became rapidly overcast with 
cirro-stratus clouds, which grew constantly denser, hast- 
ening and intensifying the gloom of evening, and, to- 
gether with an ever freshening breeze, betokened the 
near approach of a more or less radical change of 
weather. 

With a view to procuring additional wrappings, of 
which she had come to feel the need, Phyllis was about 
entering the house when, attracted by a footstep on the 
gravel walk, she looked up and saw Mr. Webster. 

“Good evening, Mr. Webster. How do you do? How 
are Mrs. Webster and Emily? Do you wish to see my 
uncle?” she said, as rapidly as the appropriate replies 
would permit. The last question being answered affirm- 
atively, she saw him seated on the porch, where he pre- 
ferred to remain, and hastened to apprise her uncle of 
his presence. 

Some ten minutes elapsed before Phyllis again came 
down stairs with her book. Upon reaching the library 
door, a sudden impulse directed her to an easy chair near 
a window opening on the side porch. From this window 
she could look out across a wide and pretty stretch of 
lawn; and, it being on the southwesterly side of the 
house, it was from here that she could longest have the 
use of the fast fading daylight, without exposing her- 
self to the cool wind, as she would now have to do on the 
porch. Voices outside made her aware that her uncle 
and Mr. Webster occupied chairs within a few feet of the 
open window; but, not suspecting any possible objection 
to her presence, she remained and proceeded with her 
reading. As a matter of fact, her uncle had but an in- 
stant before her entry assured himself that the room 
was vacant, and that there were no listeners to the con- 
versation between himself and his visitor. How easily 

55 


Eminent Respectability. 


may we be deceived 1 How fairy-like are the foot-falls 
of a graceful woman! From her position, Phyllis could 
have heard every syllable of this conversation; but so 
absorbed was she in her book that, for some time, she 
noted nothing whatever of it. The light finally failing, 
however, she closed her book, and, probably intending 
to think over what she had read, flung herself back into 
a reclining position. Then she noted that the conver- 
sation outside was somewhat heated. Something that 
was said so surprised her that she listened, and, listen- 
ing, she heard things that surprised her still more. She 
now perceived that she should not be there; but to such 
an extent had her curiosity been aroused, that she could 
not bring herself to the point of retiring until she had 
heard more. Not that she was naturally curious. Under 
ordinary circumstances, she would have been one of the 
last to taste forbidden fruit. But the circumstances here 
were not ordinary, and she felt that she must hear more 
of what was being said. 

“Webster, you are not keeping faith with me,” she 
heard her uncle say. “I see that I made a mistake in 
trusting you. You were never to reveal his Tdentity.” 

“I have no disposition to reveal his identity,” re- 
turned Mr. Webster. “I am not at all ashamed to 
own him, and I am vain enough to believe that my 
name can be no disgrace or hindrance to him; but I 
am unable to do by him as he should be done by. 
At that time, my prospects were fairly good, and I 
did not look forward to having to ask anything of 
anyone on his behalf. Nor did I foresee that he 
would turn out to be what he is. As it is, he is being 
neglected; he ain^t getting the assistance that he is en- 
titled to. He has struggled nobly for an education, and 
S6 


Eminent Respectability. 

has accomplished a great deal with very little aid. He 
has the finest kind of stuff in him. Give him half a chance 
and he will make his mark. There never lived a finer 
boy. He’s done his duty by me, and I intend to do mine 
by him. What mine is, under the circumstances, you 
know.” 

“Well, you should do your duty by me, too, Webster.” 

“That is a remark that you have no right to make, Mr. 
Belfield.” 

“W'ell, we won’t quarrel. Let him take a thousand 
dollars as a reward for the services rendered to members 
of my family. He’ll be welcome to it, and it will go a 
long way toward giving him a profession.” 

“That, sir; he’ll never do. In the matter of manly 
dignity, he’s inferior to no man living.” 

“Pooh! Poverty has no business with manly dignity.” 

“Well, it seems that poverty alone prevents its be- 
coming an outcast.” 

“Now, see here, Webster; there are six thousand dol- 
lars still due on that mortgage. If your farm were sold 
to-day, it wouldn’t bring it. To raise that sum, it would 
take farm, stock, utensils — everything. Nevertheless, 
you just let this matter alone, and, as long as we both 
live, you will not be asked for a cent of the principal; 
but, just as sure as you make it disagreeable. I’ll fore- 
close and clean you out.” 

“I considered all that, Mr. Belfield, and made my 
decision before coming to see you.” 

“And you will persist?” 

“I will.” 

“How much do you think he ought to have?” inquired 
Mr. Belfield, after a brief silence. 

“How much is he entitled to? You know that better 
than I do.” 57 


Eminent Respectability. 

“As yet, he isn’t entitled to anything.” 

“You know what I mean — morally?” 

“Oh, I don’t know. It would take an ethical culture 
society to determine that. I suppose you would like to 
have — say, six or seven thousand dollars, eh?” 

“I suppose so.” 

“I couldn’t give it directly to the boy; nor place it in 
trust for him, without raising suspicions that would lead 
to disclosures. I suppose you could take care of it for 
him?” 

“I don’t see why not.” 

“It would be convenient to pay off that mortgage with, 
eh?” 

Mr. Belfield, I’ll remain to hear no more insults; I’ve 
heard enough. And, if you had said that to me any- 
where else, my years would not have prevented me from 
slapping your face.” 

“Tut, tut, Webster! don’t lose temper. Let the matter 
rest awhile, and I’ll think it over. You don’t want to do 
anything rash, you know; you have too much at stake. 
I’ll think it over, and determine what can best be done. 
Good-night.” 

Perceiving that the interview was at an end, Phyllis 
glided noiselessly from the library and betook herself 
to her own room. 

For a girl of eighteen, she had seen much of what is 
commonly called “the world.” Having traveled much in 
her own country and passed two summers in Europe, 
she had mingled with the hurrying, scurrying multitude 
in many of the greatest centres of population. Her 
young eyes had beheld much of what we may call “ex- 
ternal man.” She had seen specimens of almost every 
division and subdivision of the human race. Men of 

58 


Eminent Respectability. 

various colors, various features, various tongues, vari- 
ous customs, habits, and tastes. She had beheld the 
greatest triumphs of human industry, skill and genius; 
she had watched man at work in various capacities on 
land and sea; she had met aristocrats in their palaces, 
the eminently respectable in their mansions, the re- 
spectable in their homes, and the proletariat in their 
habitations. Indeed, few philosophers have seen so 
much. But, of what we may call ''internal man,” she was 
almost totally ignorant. She had learned much of the 
physical activities of man, but little of their mental 
causes. She laughed at the follies of her class and sex, 
but did not see in them the heart-breaking struggle for 
priority. One may see much and observe little; another, 
observe much while seeing little. To observe well, re- 
quires a degree of mental discipline that amounts, prac- 
tically, to a second nature. A keen observer who has 
spent three months abroad can tell you more of peoples 
and places than can a grizzled sailor who has repeatedly 
visited most of the principal ports of the world. This is 
why so many know so little of the ^‘internal,” or real, 
man; which must be seen, if seen at all, through the 
“inner eye” — the eye of the mind — which is frequently 
so disused as to become functionless, like the vermiform 
appendix. To many of us, it seldom occurs to turn this 
inner eye on the objects, and persons, and acts, that are 
most familiar to our outer eye. How different they 
generally seem, when we do! How often the beautiful 
becomes hideous, and the hideous, beautiful! How 
often is that which we regarded as most useful seen to be 
worthless, and that- which we supposed worthless, seen 
to have been designed for the highest uses! How often 
are those whom we had looked upon as paragons of 

59 


Eminent Respectability. 


virtue and worth seen to be utterly unworthy of respect, 
and those whom we had neglected and despised, to be 
the most lustrous examples of ideal morality ! 

Phyllis had never seen her uncle through other than 
the outer eye. To her, he had always seemed a model 
husband, a model father, and a model guardian — a per- 
sonification of worth, honor, and good citizenship. She 
now for the first time got a glimpse of him through 
the inner eye, and the result, as we may imagine, was a 
shock. She became vaguely conscious of a power 
hitherto dormant in her, and which she couFd henceforth 
no more refrain from exercising — however disagreeable 
or alarming the result might be — than she could refrain 
from smelling, hearing, or feeling. Such, sometimes, is 
the momentous result of the most trivial circumstance. 
Had not that sudden impulse directed her to the library 
window, she would have continued to see in her uncle 
an irreproachable man. But now — how changed! She 
shuddered at the transformation. Of course, she de- 
plored the truth ; but, did she regret the fact of her hav- 
ing learned it? To suppose this, would be to suppose 
Nature inconstant; for, who ever learned a part of a dis- 
agreeable truth and did not hunger for the remainder of 
it? and, having gotten the whole, did not eagerly pursue 
connected truths? If it is true that, “when ignorance is 
bliss, it is folly to be wise,” then a potential desire to be 
foolish is inherent in every man and every woman. 

For more than an hour, Phyllis sat by her bedroom 
window, looking out into the gloom, and making occa- 
sional efforts to listen to the soothing music of the wind- 
pressed foliage; but her thoughts would persistently 
recur to the conversation that had so much disturbed 
her. She had heard neither her uncle nor Mr. Webster 
6o 


Eminent Respectability. 

mention the name of the person to whom their conver- 
sation referred; but who could it be, other than Alex 
Webster? Every reference pointed to him, and to him 
alone. Here was a mystery, truly; but, as yet, she made 
no guess, as to its solution. What impressed her was 
that some wrong was being done to this worthy person, 
or, at least, some right was being withheld from him; 
and that that wrong was being done by her hitherto 
respected uncle. She knew these Websters to be plain, 
but honorable, people. When they were but children, 
Alex and Emily had attended school at B — with herself 
and Virginia; and, owing to the acquaintanceship then 
begun, she had since frequently called upon Emily to pay 
her respects, when driving that way. Although these 
calls were never returned, Phyllis had sufficient mental 
acumen to understand why they were not, and she ab- 
solved Emily from all conventional obligation with re- 
spect to them. Alex had always been shy and politely 
distant toward her; but she had formed of him, as well 
as of the rest of the family, a very high opinion, and 
would be slow indeed to believe anything dishonorable 
of him. She had invited Alex and Emily to her birthday 
party for two reasons: She wished to show her respect 
for these worthy people, and, secondly, she knew that 
they would not come. Now, she owed Alex a debt that 
could never be paid, nor calculated; and henceforth his 
welfare must be a matter of peculiar interest to her. 

That her uncle was playing some discreditable part, 
his own words had left no room to doubt; and, as it 
always happened in such cases, her knowledge of this 
aroused in her more or less bewildered mind vague sus- 
picions relative to other conduct of his. Why was he so 
anxious for her to marry George Junkin? That he 
6i 


Eminent Respectability. 


should be deeply interested in so important a matter as 
her marriage, was to be expected; but why this apparent 
haste? Why this proffered bribe, as it now seemed pos- 
sible that it was? Could that conversation relative to 
George have been premeditated? If so, what was back 
of his astonishing display of interest? George seemed 
to her a passable young man, but by no means a re- 
markable one ; and, while his father was a lawyer, she had 
never heard of his being either wealthy or celebrated. 
Could there be some understanding between George’s 
father and her uncle? She now thought this probable, 
but why there should be was beyond her imagination. 
Junkin Senior was a frequent visitor at her uncle’s house, 
and there was much serious talk between them] but he 
being her uncle’s lawyer, this fact had been without ap- 
parent signification. 

But, however this might be, she could take her time 
in thinking it out. What taxed her most just now was 
her immediate position with regard to her uncle. Here- 
tofore, he had been her respected relative and guardian, 
the husband of her respected aunt, the father of her 
respected, though somewhat fastidious cousin; her kisses 
— morning, evening, and night — had had the spontan- 
eity and fervor of admiration, affection, and duty, which 
had seemed to be reciprocated and complimented by the 
warmth and glow of the honorable brow upon which 
they had been pressed. Now, embracing and kissing 
him would be, to her, like embracing and kissing the 
stone statue of a monster. Yet, she must continue to 
do it; she must betray no change of feeling toward her 
uncle. Henceforth, she must play a role — she must 
dissemble. A heavy task, this, and an irksome one, for 
such a person as our frank, and honest, and merry 
Phyllis, 63 


CHAPTER VI. 


“But man, proud man, 

Drest in a little brief authority. 

Most ignorant of what he’s most assured — 

His glossy essence — like an angry ape. 

Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven, 

As make the angels weep.’’ 

— Shakespere, Measure for Measure. 

How pleasant it is to watch the plangent surf from 
some breeze-swept pavilion on a bright summer day! 
How interesting, and how beautiful, are the marshalled 
hosts of Neptune sweeping on in emerald sheen and in 
serried files, with unequaled grace and admirable pre- 
cision! Rank upon rank of spotless crests pressing on 
to the attack, and each in turn hurling itself unfalteringly 
upon the Tellural ramparts. Broken, shattered, hurled 
back, with what untiring energy and eternal purpose do 
they quickly reform, and again advance, to be again 
shattered, and again reformed; charging, reforming, and 
again charging, with varying degrees of energy, but with 
unvarying regularity, in a struggle that will last for eons 
— ^perhaps for eternity! 

Are you given to meditation? Do you like to men- 
tally separate yourself from the mass of humanity and 
silently contemplate it — the most curious, complex, and, 
altogether, the most wonderful thing on earth? Do you 
find it profitable to observe man’s actions, search for 
their causes, and speculate upon their meaning? — laugh, 

63 


Eminent Respectability. 


sigh, or grumble, as they amuse, sadden, or vex you? 
If so, you doubtless find the most interesting phase of 
your subject to be “man at leisure,” and the place and 
time where and when this phase can be seen to the best 
advantage, to be a popular seashore resort in August. 
Here may be seen assembled from many parts of the 
earth a vast heterogeneous throng in holiday attire and 
pursuing holiday activities — freed, temporarily, from 
labor and routine; the monotony of accustomed scenes 
and accustomed ways, and removed to a more congenial 
clime, a greater freedom, and the association of kindred 
spirits. Here, freed from labor, business cares, “social 
duties,” and untrammeled (in a large measure, at least) 
by the opinions of neighbors, does each individual, in a 
greater degree than is possible under other conditions, 
follow the bent of his or her own will, and thus reveal to 
the observing student of human nature his or her real 
self. Let us not suppose, however, that opinion is here 
disregarded. Quite the contrary. But at home it is 
feared; here it is wooed. Indeed, did we but know it, this 
wooing is the explanation of by far the greater part of 
the curious phenomena of this vast throng. Why do so 
many of these women ride to and fro through the crowd 
in chairs pushed by negroes? Surely not because they 
are fatigued from over-exertion ! If asked, they would 
probably declare themselves to be too fat to walk. The 
truth is, however, that they are too fat because they do 
not walk. Had they walked as much as the negroes who 
push them, they would not now have their obesity as an 
excuse for employing them. See that fashionably attired 
young woman lying lazily back in her wheel-chair, with 
a manifestly feigned look of enniii on her pretty face, 
and looking neither to the right, nor to the left, as she is 
64 


Eminent Respectability. 

hurried along. Why does she so ride on this crowded 
thoroughfare? Not because she wishes to see the people 
there, for she does not look at them. Besides, she could 
see them as well — indeed better — if she were to walk. 
Nor is getting the pure, cool sea air her object; for this 
could be enjoyed as much in a comfortable chair in a 
pavilion, or on the porch of her hotel. Why does this 
fantastically dressed woman with false curls, false teeth, 
false complexion, and, perhaps, other falsities not so ob- 
vious, weight herself down with three or four large metal 
money bags, which she might have left in the safe at her 
hotel without charge? Why has that heavily bejeweled 
woman brought her two poodles and their attendant 
with her, at considerable expense, instead of leaving 
them at home with the servants? Not because she wants 
their society, for she rarely speaks to them. Why does 
that dashing young woman wearing a man’s hat and ac- 
companied by a bull terrier scurry along through the 
crowd so fast? Not because she is belated in the keep- 
ing of an appointment, for in a little while she will scurry 
back, and then fro again. Why does she carry that ex- 
pensive whip — with which she has never been known to 
strike? Why does that rigidly haughty-looking woman, 
who carries her head so high that it seems to endanger 
her equilibrium — and who passes her poor acquaintances 
without notice and merely nods to her moderately rich 
ones — suddenly collapse into an amorphous lump of 
smiling flesh at the sight of Governor Blank, or the wife 
of Senator So and So, upon whom she obsequiously 
fawns like a puppy delighted by the return of its mis- 
tress? Why has that woman yonder, evidently an 
actress, appeared on the walk in a garb that was evi- 
dently designed for the levities of New Year’s eve? Why 

65 


Eminent Respectability. 


does Maggie there (probably “just down for the day”) 
wear an ultra fashionable though inexpensive) hat? Why 
are pretty Miss Cohen, and Miss Gerson, and Miss 
Rosenstein always a little in advance of the Parisian 
styles? Is it because of “tips” given their fathers by 
Parisian merchants, do you think? Why does pretty 
Miss Johnson parade the beach in a fantastic bathing 
suit that she never gets wet? Why did Miss Joyce bring 
a bathing suit of so attenuated a pattern that the over- 
officious police put it under the ban? Why does Mrs. 
Biddle take pains to apprise the public of the fact of her 
having a “maid” with her, by spreading it upon the hotel 
register? Why does Mrs. Thayer declare her syrup to 
be sour, in tones that she is quite sure will be heard by 
those sitting near, and a moment later accept with un- 
qualified approval another cupful from the same bottle? 
Why does Madam DuBarry reject her wine for a reason 
equally groundless? Why does Mrs. Bailey criticise the 
hotel management for permitting clerks to eat in the 
dining-room used by the guests? 

Have not all these and the infinity of similar phe- 
nomena one and the same explanation? Is not an all- 
consuming desire to attract attention, and be accorded 
some measure of superiority, the common motive? Are 
not all these curious doings, that make us smile, and 
stare, and wonder, the phenomena of one phase — a fem- 
inine phase — of the great, heart-breaking, struggle for 
priority? 

“Ah, but how about the men?” 

Yes, the men are here; but, as a rule, they are more or 
less amused spectators of the scene. They, too, have 
their struggle for priority; but the scenes of their fiercer, 
though less spectacular, activities are mostly laid else- 
where. 66 


Eminent Respectability. 

There are, however, some notable exceptions, as re- 
gards both sexes. For instance, there is “Kitty,” whose 
attire — though of good materials and, in the main, fash- 
ionably cut — has certain little peculiarities, the signifi- 
cance of which is fully understood by the wise. Note 
how wistfully the eyes of the men follow her; how wives 
glare at her as they pass; how the younger women glance 
obliquely at her, and raise their noses disapprovingly — 
of which, however, Kitty apparently takes no notice. 
She is engaged in no struggle for priority. She is no 
rival of these others. Follow her and you will learn that 
her activities are all directed to the getting of food and 
what modicum of simple pleasure the world may vouch- 
safe her, with which to modify or anaesthetize her misery, 
during the brief period that she knows herself to be 
fated to live. Poor Kitty! we say in passing; but let us 
say it low; or, better still, let us think it; for, should her 
immaculate sisters overhear us, a storm of anathemas 
would probably disturb our meditations. Kitty is un- 
fortunate (let us still think). Nay, damned ! — fallen into 
the Pit of Despair, from which there is no helping hand 
of an incarnate Christ to rescue her. Having been lured 
from the path of conventional virtue and betrayed by one 
sex, she is loathed and execrated by the other, and 
doomed to a wretched existence — though happily a brief 
one — in the mephitic atmosphere of shame. How bois- 
terous she is, at times! how rude! How recklessly she 
takes wine and beer! Ah, yes; but, good reader, con- 
sider how you act, in the presence of a prospective cus- 
tomer. Is there not something abnormal in your con- 
duct on such occasions? — something incongruous be- 
tween it and your real state of mind? Perhaps Kitty has 
learned her business as well as you have learned yours. 

67 


Eminent Respectability. 


And then, there are mammas here with their marriage* 
able daughters, professedly for a change of air, but in 
reality — as we are constrained to believe — to catch suit- 
able husbands for them. And there are foreigners here, 
professedly to see our wonderful resort, but in reality 
— as we are constrained to believe — to catch American 
heiresses for wives. For instance, there is Count Fal- 
kenstein, from the land where the aristocratic breed is 
too prolific for the thin soil (until well fertilized by ex- 
otic cash), paying furious court to Miss Virginia Belfield. 
And, were the truth known, though appearances must be 
maintained, of course, the Belfields are more than meet- 
ing the Count half way. They had had the honor of an 
introduction to him while in Europe during the previous 
summer, and the Count had had the sagacity to see a 
possible windfall in that event. He saw at once that they 
earnestly sought what he could bestow, and thought it 
more than likely that they could supply what he so des- 
perately needed. So favorable had the prospect seemed, 
that he had journeyed to America on borrowed money; 
and, to his ineffable delight, he had found the proposition 
a much easier one than he had ventured to hope for. He 
had come prepared to prove the genuineness of his title, 
and Papa Belfield quickly justified, as to the considera- 
tion. So it was quickly fixed. Both sides were made 
jubilant by the success of their plans and the prospects 
of realized aspirations. The Belfields did not ask for a 
certificate of character, nor did they investigate the 
Count’s affairs at all, beyond the proofs of his title. With 
them, a title for Virginia was the one desideratum. This 
once acquired, they would be willing to deal with what- 
ever situation they might then encounter. 

What a lot of solemn boobies our forefathers were! 

68 


Eminent Respectability. 

How inept — how almost criminally stupid — were the 
founders of this, the greatest of nations, in making a con- 
stitutional provision against the creation of titles — the 
very acme and consummation of human desire — the 
only means whereby eminent respectability, when once 
acquired, may be embalmed, and preserved as an in- 
alienable and indestructible hereditament! What a mis- 
chievous provision is that which has compelled, and is 
compelling, so many American girls to tie themselves in 
wedlock to the physical, moral, mental degenerates of 
effete Europe, that they may add lustre to their eminent 
respectability, and transmit it to a diseased and imbecile 
progeny! How unjust to American sons, to cause them 
to be spurned by the elite of American daughters — the 
loves of their childhood — and obliged to be content with 
the leavings of their mental and moral inferiors! What 
an abominable policy it is that compels the industrious 
of America to support in idleness and profligacy the ever- 
increasing aristocracy of Europe! Free American 
working men, have you ever estimated the probable pro- 
portion of your toil-fruits that goes that road? Have 
you ever contemplated what might be accomplished by 
diverting it from this purpose to the construction of 
parks at home? 

In a few days, it was all arranged. At an early date, 
Virginia was to be the Countess Falkenstein, and the 
Count was to have in American dollars a sum sufficient 
for the adjustment of his pressing debts, and an annual 
stipend suitable to his needs and dignity. How very 
much better than they knew, did the early aristocrats of 
Europe build! How fortunate for Europe that England 
lost her colonies, and that the latter set up on the demo- 
cratic plan ! 


69 


Eminent Respectability. 


Another exception to the rule, with respect to the 
nature of the activities that characterized this and similar 
places, was to be found in the doings of Henry Belfield. 
This great human planet had a goodly number of satel- 
lites that closely followed him, however eccentric he 
made his orbit. Hence, he was always received with 
marked courtesy and grace by the proprietor and clerks 
of a hotel, who knew that his arrival was the precursor 
of a “flight” of similar game. His suite always included 
at least one extra room, fitted up as a private parlor; 
and in this room, dear reader, was transacted some of the 
most momentous business of our great and glorious 
country. 

In this room, during the visit of which we write, two 
judges, one congressman, and at least a score of minor 
officials, such as revenue collectors, postmasters, etc., 
were “made,” or decided upon; the prices of two staple 
commodities were fixed; railroad rebates were arranged, 
and important prospective legislation discussed and put 
under way. Dear reader, had you from some secret 
nook covered these proceedings with your eyes and ears, 
how many happy delusions would have been lost to you ! 
What a shock your honest simplicity would have sus- 
tained by the revelation that, not you and your neigh- 
bors, who discuss public affairs in open debate at the 
lyceums, on the store benches, and at the cross-roads; 
not you, who bear the burden of government, pay elec- 
tion expenses and brave pneumonia by shouting your- 
selves hoarse and carrying torchlights in scanty and 
spectacular garb on cold nights — not you at the polls, 
but this man and his satellites, in their private rooms, 
behind locked doors, make and unmake your public 
officials, from national senators to village postmasters! 
70 


Eminent^Respectability. 

How vexed you would have been to learn that you 
had been all wrong in arguing that prices are fixed by 
“the law of supply and demand,” and that legislation is 
always a response to a popular demand, and an “expres- 
sion of the public will!” How upside down and inside 
out would your “opinions” have suddenly seemed! How 
your ideals would have suffered! With what a crash and 
thud your gods would have fallen ! How defective would 
the curriculum of our schools and colleges have been 
seen to be ! Dear parent, would you have your son be- 
come a “success,” according to accepted popular stand- 
ards? a power in the world, an ideal citizen and an illus- 
trious patriot? Would you set before him at an early 
and impressionable age the true and noble ideals that 
he should cherish, the illustrious examples that he should 
emulate, and from which he must draw inspiration for 
high endeavor? Would you have him save precious 
time and avoid the moiling and wear incidental to learn- 
ing and unlearning a false theory of life? (to say nothing 
of the danger of being lost in the labyrinths of error) — 
set not before him the insipid milk-and-water ideals of 
the Sabbath-school; let him not learn politics, statesman- 
ship, ethics or political economy at the lyceums; set be- 
fore him a bust of Henry Belfield, and as a text-book 
give him, if possible, a copy of his biography — written by 
an adversary. 


CHAPTER VIL 


“For if she will, she will, you may depend on’t, 

And if she won’t, she won’t, and there’s an end on’t.” 

It was evening — ^perhaps eight-thirty to nine o’clock. 
Fanny sat alone at a table near the entrance of a busy 
seashore cafe. A glass of lemonade sat on the table in 
front of her, but it was evidently a mere excuse for occu- 
pying the chair, as only a few sips of it had been taken. 
She seemed to be deeply absorbed in thought, and was 
manifestly not in the best of spirits. Suddenly, a man 
beckoned to her from the open door, whereupon she 
arose and passed out. Evidently, she was expecting 
him, as, without a word, the two entered a cab and were 
driven to a remote and quiet section, where they were 
put down in front of a large house with a gloomy ex- 
terior, the immediate surroundings of which were well 
darkened with trees and shrubbery. This they entered, 
and they were soon in a rather large, well-lighted, upper 
room, where we might have recognized the man to be 
Mr. Henry Belfield. On the way hither, neither had 
spoken to the other; but, laying aside his hat, and seating 
himself eight or ten feet from his companion, Belfield, 
after closely scanning her, broke silence. 

“Well, Fanny,” he began, in a pleasant tone. 

“Well—” 

“Fanny, I believe your real name is — ah — ” 

“Never mind what. If you know, it is needless to 
mention it.” 


72 


Eminent Respectability. 

“Ah — your mother’s name was — ah — ” 

“Elizabeth Belfield, if it is a pleasure for you to 
hear it.” 

“That isn’t true!” replied Belfield, warmly. 

“Well, surely, you ought to know; but so ought she; 
and, if you will excuse me for saying so, I am con- 
strained to believe her rather than you, Mr. Belfield.” 

“Ah — then you know who I am?” 

“Humph! I should hope so,” replied Fanny, with a 
contemptuous toss of her head. “I have misfortune 
enough in the fact of living, without having added that of 
not knowing the identity of my father.” 

“There is no certainty of my being your father, Fanny.” 

“You lie! Mr. Belfield.” 

“Ugly language, Fanny,” said Belfield, slightly color- 
ing. 

“None so suitable, however. Look at my nose, and 
my eyes; they, in their own mute way, tell you the same 
thing.” 

“But, Fanny, you are mistaken about your mother and 
I having been married.” 

“Your word, Mr. Belfield, will never convince me of 
that. Flowever, it’s useless to argue; if you are right, 
you are so much the greater villain. Now, Mr. Belfield, 
what do you want with me?” 

“You are in a rather unamiable mood to-night, Fanny,” 
said Belfield, in a wheedling tone. 

“Flow could I be otherwise, with you in my eye and 
mind?” 

“Did you know or suspect whom you were to meet 
to-night?” 

“I knew.” 

“Then you had no objections to meeting me?” 

73 


Eminent Respectability. 

“I thought it best to learn what deviltry you were 
up to.” 

“Come, Fanny, there’s nothing to be gained by this 
tartness. The past can’t be revised, and the thing for 
us to do is to look out for the future. Let us be wise, 
and talk only of that.” 

“That may be very well for you, but I have no future; 
while, unfortunately, I do have a past.” 

“Well, the present then.” 

“All right — the present. Go on.” 

“Fanny, why did you not apply to me for assistance, 
instead of taking to the life that you have been leading?” 

“The present, Mr. Belfield, if you please.” 

For a moment, Belfield’s face wore the expression of 
a stalemated chess-player. 

“Fanny,” he said, slowly, after a moment’s pause, “I 
suppose that you secured your mother’s effects, of 
course?” 

“The present, Mr. Belfield; the present, pray,” she 
replied impatiently. “Upon your own motion, we have 
barred the past.” 

“But answer me with respect to this one particular, 
Fanny, then we will talk of the present.” 

“Well, I got some of her things, of course; and I sup- 
pose that you got some — eh?” 

“What do you mean? Why do you say that?” 

“Oh, I thought that, inasmuch as you saw her last, you 
might possibly have taken such of her effects as you had 
a fancy for.” Fanny said this in slow, measured tones, 
twisting her handkerchief, and observing Belfield with a 
steady oblique glance. 

“What do you mean by that?” exclaimed Belfield, who 
turned from red to livid as she spoke. 

A 


Eminent Respectability. 

Fanny seemed to enjoy his agitation. “I never 
equivocate, Mr. Belfield,” she said quietly, looking at 
him with a faint sardonic smile on her face. “Isn’t my 
language plain?” 

“Why do you say that I saw her last? How could 
that be?” 

“Oh! didn’t you accompany her to the river that 
night?” she replied, in clever mock surprise; and, leaning 
forward, she looked fixedly into Belfield’s face. This was 
too much for even the naturally cool-headed Belfield, 
and he said so in tones that showed clearly that he had 
lost his habitual presence of mind. 

“Damn it, girl,” he hissed, “you’re trifling with me! 
Who are you that dares to do that?” 

“Who am I? Your wretched daughter, Father, dear — 
ha, ha, ha! Trifling, did you say? How unkind!” 

“Yes, you are trifling! and you will please discontinue 
it at once. I am not a man to be trifled with, and I don’t 
talk on trifling subjects.” 

“Oh, no indeed!” replied Fanny, still maintaining her 
mock gravity. “I am aware that you are not given to 
dealing with trifling subjects. Your subjects are always 
weighty enough to sink?^ 

“I’ll stand no more of this; do you hear?” exclaimed 
Belfield, springing from his chair, and beside himself 
with rage. 

“No one detains you,” replied Fanny, quietly. 

“But you shall listen to me, girl; do you hear?” he 
hissed, advancing toward her with a minatory aspect. 
“Drop this damned nonsense at once, and tell me what I 
want to know, or by—” 

“I’ll tell you nothing that I please to withhold,” re- 
plied Fanny, also rising, and facing Belfield fearlessly. 

75 


Eminent Respectability. 


“And you mean to brave me?” 

“And you think to frighten me? Ha, ha, ha! Go 
home to your servants. Papa, dear,” said Fanny, with a 
contemptuous gesture, as she turned toward the door. 

Such defiance as this was something altogether new 
to this great dominator of men, and Fanny’s words and 
sneers stung him to the quick. With an oath, he tried 
to grasp her by the throat. His intent, if he had any, 
can only be guessed at ; but it is most likely that his act 
was due to an ungovernable impulse in the sheer blind- 
ness of his rage. Fanny, however, was prepared for any 
emergency, and not to be taken by surprise. Eluding 
his grasp by a cat-like movement, she quickly faced 
about, holding a gleaming dagger above her head. Bel- 
field shrank back, pale and trembling; and small wonder, 
for, unmistakably, murder was in her glistening eyes. 

“Would you dare?” he stammered. 

“Would I dare, man!” she replied, through clenched 
teeth. “Can you not realize that you are not dealing 
with a servant or some half-witted dependent, but with a 
desperate woman? A woman against whom the doors 
of human society are forever closed, and who, having 
nothing to hope for, has nothing to lose and nothing to 
fear? One who, looking into the face of the author of 
her wretched existence — the cause of all her unutterable 
misery — knowing him to be a heartless scoundrel that 
deserves the worst from his fellow man, would plunge a 
knife into his heart with a feeling of relief from her pent- 
up hate and thirst for revenge?” 

“But don’t you know that you would be hanged?” 

“No. The hangman’s noose may be for you, but it is 
not for me. Having wiped this blade clean of your foul 
blood, a second to the stroke that finished you would 

76 


Eminent Respectability. 

finish me. Look at my head closely, and you will see 
gray hairs that ought not yet be there. Look into my 
face, and you will see that the bloom of youth is already 
fading. What matters my few remaining hours? What 
have I to live for? Unless — unless it is to see that you 
get your deserts! O — h yes! I forgot; I have a mis- 
sion, and won’t kill myself yet — unless I am forced to 
first kill you.” 

As Belfield shrank away, Fanny lowered her hand; but 
she tightly clutched her dagger, and glared wickedly at 
him while she spoke. The former, though greatly fright- 
ened, now became more composed in manner; and, 
doubtless, seeing what a dangerous mistake his bullying 
course had been, he adopted a wheedling and concilia- 
tory one. 

“Come, Fanny,” he began, “let us have no scene here. 
You are excited^ sit down, and calm yourself.” 

Both again became seated; and, Fanny assuming a 
listening attitude, Belfield proceeded: 

“You have your troubles, of course, as I have mine. 
This is a world of trouble, to people in every walk of life 
— ^particularly to intelligent, thinking people — and we 
are all prone to attribute our individual share of it to 
others, and scarcely ever to the right ones. I don’t 
claim to be a saint, or very saint-like. I know that my 
conduct has not uniformily harmonized with accepted 
moral tenents; but this is because Nature made me a 
man of action — ambitious and aggressive. Show me a 
man who does nothing that is called wrong, and I will 
show you one who does no good — an imbecile, a non- 
entity. Some wrong-doing is always incident to those 
activities that move the world along. So it is, and so it 
has always been. Abraham was not noted for connu- 

77 


Eminent Respectability. 


bial fidelity; Jacob robbed his brother Esau, and over- 
reached his uncle Laban; while Jehovah himself turned 
unoffending women and children over to the sword of 
the marauding Jews, when it suited his purpose to do so. 
The world, Fanny, black as it is, is not so black and 
cheerless as you imagine it to be. Undoubtedly, your 
path is thorny, but it is not impassable, nor absolutely 
joyless. Even beyond the pale of society, the world is 
not entirely devoid of sweets; and the thing needed for 
their enjoyment — and, in fact, for the enjoyment of any- 
thing in the civilized world — is money. Money is power. 
Possess it, and the world moves at the nod of your head, 
or the crook of your finger ; and the law becomes to you 
at once a sword and a shield. It is a talisman that con- 
verts impotency into power, imbecility into intellectu- 
ality, deformity into beauty, vice into virtue, villainy into 
patriotism, dishonor into respectability. An eleemosy- 
nary gift of a thousand dollars atones for the theft of a 
million. Tut money in thy purse,’ said the wisest of 
philosophers; and, surely, with money and good health, 
one can always extract enough pleasure from life to 
make it worth holding on to. Now, within reason, I am 
willing to help you, Fanny. Befriend me, and I’ll be- 
friend you; that’s the secret of success. Confide in me, 
and follow my directions, and you need want for no com- 
fort of life.” 

“Much of what you say is undoubtedly true,” said 
Fanny, as Belfield paused to observe the effect of his 
words; “but your speech is that of an advocate. There 
is much — very much — omitted from your philosophy; 
and it would not require an essayist to show that no 
human being has ever been blest by your activities, while 
many, including yourself, have been made unhappy by 

78 


Eminent Respectability. 

them. Your very breath has been a poison and a blight. 
One of the saddest things in this world is, it seems to 
me, its neglect and abuse of those who do real good; 
while great rewards are heaped upon those who, like 
yourself, do nothing but evil — ^who work only for per- 
sonal aggrandizement. It may be, however, that, after 
all, the former are sufficiently rewarded, and the latter 
sufficiently punished. Certain it is, that I would rather 
be an honest fisherman than what you are.” 

We may well suspect that Belfield winced under 
Fanny’s verbal excoriation. He was quite unprepared 
for what he was finding this girl to be. He had come to 
meet a common outcast; one who could be persuaded by 
a few dollars to do whatever he should will. Instead of 
this, he had encountered an educated and high-spirited 
woman who, though only about twenty-two years of age, 
had a knowledge of the world almost equal to his own. 
So taken by surprise, and so disconcerted, was he, that 
it seemed imposssible for him to fully grasp the situa- 
tion and avoid blundering. 

“I must confess,” he said, “that moralization by one in 
your position strikes me as somewhat incongruous — ” 

“Doubtless,” replied Fanny. “But don’t you see as 
much incongruity in your own life? We differ in that 
you are worse than you seem, and I seem worse than I 
am. I am not so old as those who have lived longer, 
but I have crowded much experience into a few years; 
and I have learned, among other things, that a person 
outside the pale of society — though indeed unfortunate 
— is not necessarily bad, and that one within it is not 
necessarily good. The classification that results in out- 
casts is conventional; while the difference between a 
good person and a bad one is a natural difference — a 

79 


Eminent Respectability. 

constitutional difference — that is usually brought to light 
by environment or accident. For example, I know out- 
casts that could not be really bad if they tried to be; 
while you could be a good man no more than a leopard 
can change its spots.” 

“Well, Fanny, these subjects are apart from our pur- 
pose, and it would be a waste of time to argue them. Let 
us to business.” 

“I am listening.” 

“I would like to know, Fanny, whether or not you 
found any papers — such as legal documents — among 
your mother’s effects?” 

“Supposing I did?” 

“Then I would like to inspect them, Fanny. They 
can be of no use to you, though there is a possibility of 
their being of some to me.” 

“Well, I found none. All that I found in her cabinet, 
in addition to writing materials, was a sealed package 
with Casper Carson’s name written upon it. I knew that 
she had for a month or more been trying to locate him, 
and, when I found the package, I inferred, of course, that 
she meant for him to have it.” 

Fanny’s negative reply seemed disappointing to Bel- 
held; but, at the mention of Casper Carson’s name, he 
started up with a new interest. 

“Have you delivered that package?” he eagerly in- 
quired. 

“No,” replied Fanny. “I have not been able to hnd 
him. He seems to be a wanderer. I have located him 
three or four times, but he has invariably flown before I 
could reach him.” 

“And you have never opened it?” 

8o 


Eminent Respectability. 

‘Of course not. I have always looked forward to de- 
livering it, and even yet hope to do so.” 

“But you should open it, my girl. There may be 
something of importance in it — something needing at- 
tention.” 

“It can hardly be of importance to any one but him. 
At any rate, I shall not open it so long as I have a hope 
of delivering it.” 

“Where is the package now?” 

“Oh, I have it in safe keeping.” 

“In New York?” 

“Of course.” 

“Go with me to New York to-morrow, Fanny, and 
place it unopened into my hands. Do this, and, what- 
ever may be its contents, you need henceforth have no 
reasonable want unprovided for.” 

“I will do nothing of the kind, Mr. Belfield. I have 
never believed this package to be, in itself, of much im- 
portance. I don’t now. But I am sure that my mother 
wished him to have it, and that belief imposes a sacred 
trust upon me that your whole fortune would not induce 
me to disregard.” 

“Tut, tut, my girl; that is very pretty sentiment; but 
sentiment is not sense when it interferes with business.” 

“There can be no business in this matter, so far as I 
am concerned. It is, and will be, entirely a matter of 
duty and honor.” 

“Now, Fanny, let us be reasonable. Suppose we open 
the package together, and after inspecting the contents, 
seal it up again?” 

“Not at all. I have never had any mental itching to 
know what my mother might be sending to this man; 
and not even the curiosity that your interest now arouses 

8i 


Eminent Respectability. 


will prompt me to learn — not even in private, much less 
in your presence.” 

‘‘Consider this well, Fanny; it means — ” 

“I don’t need to consider, Mr. Belfield. My mind 
needs no making up. It is quite useless for you to per- 
sist. And,” continued Fanny, rising and moving toward 
the door, “if this is the extent of your business with me, 
we had as well adjourn.” 

It was the extent of his business with her; and, al- 
though the issue was far from satisfactory, he realized 
the futility of further efforts at that time. As he arose to 
depart, anger and alarm were depicted in his flushed face. 
He had met with defeat, probably for the first time. He 
had met with affrontery and defiance, which were also 
new to him; and he was alive to the fact that, while he 
had not served his immediate interests by this interview, 
he had come upon a lurking danger that might be pre- 
cipitated upon him at any moment, and which might put 
his power of resistance to a severe or disagreeable test. 

In a few minutes, they were again in their cab and 
being driven toward the cafe at which they had met. On 
the way back, Belfield continued his importunities with 
Fanny, but all in vain. To his surprise and vexation, he 
had found what he had believed the world to be without 
— a human being “without a price.” 


82 


CHAPTER VIIL 


“Half our knowledge we must snatch, not take.” 

— Pope, Essay on Man. 

Four “moons” had passed since the illusions of youth 
had first begun to fade from Phyllises mind by reason of 
the opening of her inner eye upon her uncle. The emer- 
ald freshness of May had turned into the gold and russet 
desiccation of September. The beautiful blossoms had 
been superseded by luscious fruit; their fragrant exhala- 
tions, by the effluvia of decay. Instead of the merry 
twitter of the wren and the amorous melody of the 
mating catbird, were the monotonous chirp of the spar- 
row and the staccato “hock” of the crow; instead of soft, 
wooing zephyrs, were ruthless, desolating blasts that 
aroused men from their dog-day listlessness and spurred 
them on to fresh endeavor. 

During these months, Phyllis had done much thinking 
— had made many observations and drawn many con- 
clusions — which had resulted in very considerable modi- 
fications of her estimate of the world. She was fast 
coming to judge human actions by different standards, 
and to interpret them by different rules. 

She was seeing light where there had been only dark- 
ness, or opacity, and significance in things that had 
hitherto been meaningless to her. She was still merry 
and vivacious, and she had succeeded in hiding her 
change of feeling toward her uncle ; but there was never- 

83 


Eminent Respectability. 


theless a growing seriousness in her manner that did not 
escape her close acquaintances, who attributed it to her 
fuller maturity, and to her realization of the fact of her 
having now reached a more serious period in life. 

George Junkin had increased the frequency of his 
visits, and had been, both at her home and at the sea- 
shore, the facile princeps of her numerous young male 
admirers. She had taken good care, however, that he 
got no opportunity to speak to her of love. This, she 
seemed determined that he should not do; nor did she 
permit any other to do it. With what degree of satis- 
faction she observed that she was greatly admired and 
much sought after, we venture no guess. Doubtless, 
she was human; but she seemed determined to spare 
herself the pain of rejecting a suitor, by studiously block- 
ing every attempt to be one. 

The interview between her uncle and Mr. Webster 
had been the uppermost thought in her mind; and, the 
more she thought upon it, the more culpable did her 
uncle seem to her. Nor could she repress her interest 
in the issue. She had watched closely for some indica- 
tion of Mr. Webster’s having followed up his demands; 
but she had observed nothing that suggested his having 
done so. Nor could she escape the conviction that her 
uncle had some ulterior design upon herself, in connec- 
tion with George Junkin; and, as this conviction 
strengthened, another grew out of it; namely, the convic- 
tion that she had a right to know what the nature of his 
design was. She felt certain that, could she overhear a 
private conversation between her uncle and Junkin, 
Senior, her curiosity in this particular would be gratified. 
Hence, out of her conviction had grown a wish; and this 
wish had hatched out a resolution. The thought of be- 
84 


Eminent Respectability. 

ing an eavesdropper was indeed repugnant to her; but, 
assuming the truth of what she suspected, was not her 
uncle false to his trust, in having secret designs with 
respect to her? Was he not practically conspiring 
against her? And was it not quite fair to fight the devil 
with fire? True, he had shown a disposition to be pecu- 
liarly generous toward her; and what ulterior interest 
could he possibly have in the matter of her marriage? 
Perhaps, after all, she was wrong in suspecting him. 
Possibly, his intentions, with respect to her, were all that 
he professed, and all that they should be. There is much 
incongruity in the actions of men. Thieves and mur- 
derers are not without generous impulses; and Captain 
Kidd and Bluebeard were probably kind, and just, and 
open-hearted to their friends. Yet, until she really knew 
the facts, there would be that ugly suspicion haunting 
her; and it would be palpably unfair to allow it to re- 
main, when it might be removed by learning the truth. 
Surely, she thought, justice, to both herself and her 
uncle, required that she acquaint herself with the true 
situation. Having resolved, she had watched for an op- 
portunity to execute; so far, however, without success. 
Mr. Junkin had been at their house to supper two or 
three times during the summer, each time engaging her 
uncle privately; but no situation had been brought 
about that offered the desired opportunity. 

At last, her opportunity had arrived. Her aunt and 
Virginia had gone to the city on business pertaining to 
the latter’s trousseau, and were to remain over night to 
attend the opera with the Count; and, as luck would have 
it, her uncle had brought the elder Junkin home to pass 
the night at their house. Here was her chance. The cir- 
cumstance of Mr. Junkin’s presence at this particular 

85 


Eminent Respectability. 


time had, as Phyllis thought, a suggestion of design; 
and, as they would have the house pretty much to them- 
selves, secret matters, if they had any, would doubtless 
be talked over with more than usual freedom. As we 
shall see, her calculations were quite correct. Noting, 
about ten o’clock, that the two men had become en- 
gaged at cards in the library, where they would probably 
remain until ready to retire, she covertly left ajar a door 
leading therefrom, through a narrow recess, into the 
dining-room adjoining; and, asking to be excused, bade 
them good night. The dining-room being dark, and 
having a door opening into a pantry — ^which would 
afford an excellent retreat in an emergency — was all that 
Phyllis could desire for her purpose^ and about fifteen 
minutes later — ^just after her uncle, having assured him- 
self that he and his guest had the lower floor to them- 
selves, had replaced the cards with a bottle of whisky and 
a pitcher of water — she noiselessly glided into it and 
took up a position at the library door. 

Let us see how she was rewarded. 

“We must stop the work at once, Junkin,” she heard 
her uncle say. 

“How?” inquired Junkin. 

“How! What do we employ lawyers for?” 

“But they’re violating no law.” 

“Law be damned! What do we put judges on the 
bench for? We can’t call an extra session of the legisla- 
ture to meet every emergency.” 

“Well, how will we do it?” 

“By injunction, of course.” 

“But there are no grounds.” 

“You needn’t mind about the grounds. Get the mat- 
ter before the court, and Pll take care of the grounds, 
86 


Eminent Respectability. 


and all the rest.” “By the way,” added Belfield, “I had 
an interview with that girl, while at the shore.” 

“Ah? what did you learn?” 

“That she’s dangerous.” 

“How now? Squalls ahead?” 

“A veritable Charybdis, I fear.” 

“The deuce! Still seeing things, eh? One might 
suspect you of hard drinking, Belfield, if he didn’t know 
your habits well. But the fact is you don’t drink enough. 
Take my advice: Drink more rum and take more exer- 
cise. You will then eat more, sleep better, and imagine 
less.” 

“There is no imagination or hallucination about this, 
Junkin; but the most palpable and uncomfortable reality. 
I think that I’ve pointed the will, but it’s guarded by a 
veritable she Cerberus.” 

“Why, what object has she in keeping it? It can’t be 
of any use to her.” 

“She doesn’t even suspect that she has it. She told 
me that she found among her mother’s effects a sealed 
package with Casper Carson’s name written on it; and 
that she had since been trying to locate him, with a view 
to delivering it. I suspect that that package contains 
the will.” 

“Well, wouldn’t she give it up?” 

“No.” 

“Why didn’t you throw the usual sop?” 

“I tried it, of course ; but it wouldn’t work.” 

“It would have worked, if you had gone high enough, 
surely.” 

“Not at all. There isn’t money enough minted to 
induce that woman to do a thing that she has set her 
head against.” 


87 


Eminent Respectability. 


“The devil, you say!’^ 

“I incidentally pointed something else, too, Junkin. 
Something of even greater moment than the will.” 

“Why, what now, Belfield?” 

“Junkin — that woman is a witch; and, as long as she 
lives, we’re not safe.” 

“Nonsense, Belfield!” 

“Am I in the habit of talking nonsense?” 

“Well, what do you mean? I understood that the 
woman was a bawd.” 

“Had you seen her, you would have thought her to be 
Minerva, transubstantiated. I’ve never been so sur- 
prised and shaken up in my life. I’ve been in a cold 
sweat ever since.” 

“Why, how you talk! Tell me about it.” 

“Well, I arranged for an interview with her, to find 
out whether or not there was any possibility of her help- 
ing me to locate the will; and, to my surprise, she knew 
whom she was meeting, and opened on me at once with 
reproach and abuse. And, great God, what a tartar she 
is, Junkin! Instead of meeting a silly girl, as I ex- 
pected, I got into the claws of a damned she catamount.” 

“Heigh— O! Why—” 

“Listen; she looked me through, with the most fiendish 
eyes that I’ve ever seen, and told me that my subjects zvere 
always weighty enough to sink!” 

“The devil!” exclaimed Junkin, dropping his cigar. 
“By all the gods of Egypt ! do you think that she — ” 

“I don’t know what to think. What is certain is, that 
she believes me to be responsible for the death of her 
mother. Whether she suspects anything else or not I 
don’t know; but I have my fears.” 

“I think that’s all, Belfield. It’s not unnatural that she 

88 


Eminent Respectability. 

should suspect you, or at least profess to suspect you, in 
that matter. But that signifies nothing. Besides, what 
is she?” 

“She’s a damned bright woman, Junkin; and bent on 
mischief. She frankly avowed it to be her purpose to 
bring me to book; and, in truth, I fear her falling in with 
Casper Carson. What that package contains, the Lord 
only knows. I suspect the will, for one thing; and I fear, 
other things, less desirable. Her coming into contact 
with Carson, you know, would be the meeting of two 
fires.” 

“Hem! — ah — the girl is an outcast?” 

“Yes, I believe so; or at least a Ulle de joie” 

“You were in a quiet, remote section?” 

“Yes.” 

“Then her tongue could easily have been — ” 

“Gad, man ! Didn’t I come within a hair of having my 
heart cut in two I” 

“A— hi” 

“You should have seen her, old man.” 

“A — ha! Well, Belfield, it looks as if we will have to 
put Hicks on her case. I think he’s the Hercules that 
can circumvent your Cerberus. We must get hold of 
that package; then she’ll have no occasion to hunt up 
Carson. In the meantime, it will be well to locate the 
latter, if possible, and keep him under surveillance. He’s 
probably harmless enough, wandering about like a 
tramp; but it will be just as well, and a little better, to 
keep an eye on him.” 

“All right; see Hicks at once; but don’t let him learn 
any more than it is necessary for him to know.” 

“I’ll see him to-morrow. What did you say the girl’s 
name is? I’ll write it down.” 

89 


Eminent Respectability. 


“She’s known in New York as Fanny Allen.” 

“Don’t know her address?” 

“No.” 

“Do you suppose that her grandfather Webster knows 
of her existence?” 

“Oh, I presume that he believes her to be living; but 
it is not likely that he has any idea of her whereabouts.” 

“Never mentions her to you, eh?” 

“Oh, no.” 

“Nor her mother, neither?” 

“No.” 

“Meek kind of a man, he. By the way, Belfield, how 
are Phyllis and George getting on?” 

“Nothing new, so far as I can learn.” 

Said nothing further to her on the subject, I suppose?” 

“No. I think it best to be cautious with her; for, if 
she should suspect that I have a personal interest in her 
marriage to him, it would be all up. I’ve watched the 
situation closely, and am quite certain that she’s given 
no encouragement to any one else; and, as long as she 
does not, I think it best to quietly await developments. 
Besides, she’s young yet, you know.” 

“I suppose you are right; but it would be a great relief 
to see some unmistakable signs of progress. The boy 
is in great suspense. Do you think increasing the dot 
would hurry matters any?” 

“I don’t think so. Yet, unless there is a change in the 
situation some of these days, it may be well to try it.” 

“Queer girl! George tells me that she seems to like 
him, but is absolutely unwooable.” 

“To change the subject, Junkin, we must have that 
will made as soon as Virginia’s wedding is over. I am 
afraid that I shall have trouble with that boy yet, damn 
90 


Eminent Respectability. 

him. I’d give five or six thousand dollars to be abso- 
lutely rid of him; but it can’t be done, as he’s just the 
kind of a chap to be troublesome. If he got money, he’d 
insist on knowing where it came from; and, when he had 
found that out, he’d never rest until he’d got the why. 
I’d know better how to handle a case of that kind now. 
I should have dropped him on somebody’s doorstep in 
California or Texas.” 

“There is no hushing the god-father with a little 
money, eh?” 

“No; he’s one of these ‘honorable’ cusses. I’ve prom- 
ised him to pay the expenses of giving the boy any pro- 
fession that he may choose to take up, and he may not 
give me any trouble ; but, as a precaution, we’ll have the 
will made.” 

Phyllis dared not remain to hear more. It seemed to 
her that the beat of her heart must be audible to the 
men in the next room, and she could not trust her shak- 
ing hand to touch the door. And, indeed, she had 
learned enough — and more. Carefully groping her way, 
she passed through a back door to the kitchen, and thence, 
by the way of a back staircase, to her bedroom, where 
she flung herself upon the bed, weeping as she had never 
had occasion to weep before. This girl, who could keep 
her presence of mind while battling for life in the river — 
who could even laugh in the very face of death — ^was 
completely prostrated by surprise, horror, mortification, 
and grief at thus learning that, beyond a doubt or ques- 
tion, her uncle — her aunt’s husband — her cousin’s father 
— ^was a villain and the coadjutor of villains, in the out- 
ward guise of respectability! He, whose neck she had 
so often encircled, and whose brow her lips had so often 
pressed, in token of her affection and her appreciation of 

91 


Eminent Respectability. 


his excellence! He, whose nod and beck commanded 
the movements of men, and who was honored as the 
personification of public worth and domestic virtue! 
What a Gorgon he now seemed, unmasked! How could 
such a thing be? Could it be possible that she was 
dreaming? that this dread suspicion had wrought upon 
her nerves, inducing morbidity, until her sleep was thus 
affected? No, no; it w^as all cruelly real! 

Perhaps an hour passed before her lachrymal effusion 
finally subsided and her nerves became sufficiently quiet 
for her to think, and recall to mind, bit by bit, what she 
had overheard. As she did so, she felt that she had 
been a gross offender against the proprieties of human 
conduct and reproached herself bitterly for her guilty 
prurience. Yet, surely, she thought, her object had been 
defensible. She had desired to learn only that which 
she felt that she had a right to know — indeed, that which 
she ought to know, that she might do her uncle no in- 
justice. As it had turned out, however, she had learned 
that which she now felt that she should not have learned 
— that which could only result in a secret abhorrence of 
her uncle, and in putting upon her an intolerable con- 
straint. How happy she had been in the seductive realms 
of delusion! How wretched was she now, in the cold, 
forbidding precincts of truth! 

Her thoughts having passed through this stage of self- 
reproach, it occurred to her that the information now 
possessed placed her under certain obligations. 

From what she had overheard, two things seemed rea- 
sonably certain: Her uncle and Mr. Junkin had per- 
sonal reasons, as she had suspected, for wishing her to 
marry George; and, secondly, the Websters had a family 
skeleton in the fact of an elder daughter — the mother of 
92 


Eminent Respectability. 

Alex and the girl known as Fanny Allen — having in 
some manner gone astray; and — horrible to think of! — 
there seemed to be no doubt of her uncle having been in 
some manner and degree responsible for this misfortune. 
In just what manner, of course, she could not say — she 
did not want to know, her curiosity being already more 
than satisfied — but she nevertheless had a more or less 
vague and involuntary suspicion. As to their wishes 
relative to herself, it was quite sufficient that she knew 
positively that they had them. They were quite harm- 
less — and they never would be realized. In fact, there 
had never been a possibility of their being realized. She 
had nothing against George; he was a passable young 
man, and she could amuse herself very well with him, as 
long as they were thrown into intimate relations; but the 
idea of his being her husband had seemed to her nothing 
less than ridiculous. She wished, however, to avoid the 
necessity of refusing him; and, for that reason, she had 
carefully frustrated every attempt on his part to speak 
to her of love. 

Suddenly rising from her bed, she turned up the light, 
and opening her writing cabinet, hastily penned the fol- 
lowing, in a disguised hand: 

Mr. Joel Webster. 

Dear Sir: — Your granddaughter lives in New York, under 
the name of Fanny Allen. She is in immediate need of friends 
to protect her from designing enemies. A Friend. 

Having written this, she sat for some time engaged in 
thought; shifting her chin, between convulsive sobs, from 
the palm of one hand to that of the other. Finally, she 
93 


Eminent Respectability. 


took up the note, tore it into minute pieces; and, seizing 
another sheet, she wrote the following: 

Fanny Allen: — A friend has accidentally acquired informa- 
tion of the utmost importance to you. Say at once where a 
note would reach you. 

Sarah A. B. Smith, N. Y. Post Office, G. D. 

She made three copies of this, and inclosed one to 
each of three New York newspapers, with stamps suf- 
ficient to pay for its insertion. 

This done, she fell to thinking of the future. She 
could remain no longer in her uncle’s home; his presence 
and the constraint that she would be under there would 
be unbearable; and, besides, what she now knew would 
probably lead to her learning still more, which she would 
avoid doing. What she could not do required no delib- 
eration, and what she woidd do was quickly decided upon. 
She would go to New York, and there devote herself to 
music. The morrow would be Tuesday; this advertise- 
ment would appear Wednesday. She must be in New 
York that day, to get the reply. She would tell her 
uncle and aunt at once of her sudden resolve, and make 
her trip to the city ostensibly for the purpose of making 
her arrangements. When once settled, she would place 
her affairs in the hands of some reputable lawyer or trust 
company, with a view to breaking entirely loose from her 
uncle. 

To do this would be hard — dreadful! but so she re- 
solved it must be; and so, in fact, it was. 


94 


CHAPTER IX. 


“I hear a voice you cannot hear, 

Which says I must not stay; 

I see a hand you cannot see, 

Which beckons me away.” — T ickell. 

The matter of separating from her uncle’s family was 
made particularly distressing to Phyllis by the fact of her 
tender regard for her aunt and cousin. “How cruel,” 
she thought, “that they should be tied by law and propin- 
quity to such a Doctor Jekyll! How hard it would be 
to part from them on a feigned plea! How foolish and 
ungrateful they would think her!” Nevertheless, it 
must be; and, having resolved, she did not hesitate. Nor 
could the gentle expostulations of her aunt, the forceful 
arguments of her uncle, nor the satirical observations 
and querulous appeals of Virginia, shake her resolution. 
As it was her wont in such matters, she made no at- 
tempts to controvert argument or to justify her action. 
Their reasons were “possibly sound;” she might be 
“foolish, rash and unkind;” but she had decided, and now 
only hoped for the best. To Virginia, this disposition to 
meekly concur, in word, and firmly oppose, in act, was 
particularly exasperating — “horridly mulish” — but she 
was nevertheless very fond of her cousin, and wept bit- 
terly at the parting. 

About two o’clock Wednesday, Phyllis received at the 
New York post office two letters addressed to Sarah 
A. B. Smith; one in a masculine, the other in a fine 

95 


Eminent Respectability. 


feminine hand. Opening the former first, she found that 
it was signed by one John R. Hicks, who stated that he 
could put the advertiser in the way of communicating 
with Fanny Allen, if she would call at once at his office, 
the street and number of which were given. She at once 
recalled the connection in which Junkin had used the 
name of Hicks, and carefully tucked this letter in her 
reticule. The other was from Fanny Allen herself, and 
stated that a message would reach her at the Hotel 
Royal; to which place Phyllis immediately dispatched a 
messenger with a note, asking for an interview in the 
hotel parlor at five o’clock. She got a favorable reply, 
and five o’clock found the two young women seated to- 
gether at the trysting place. 

“Do you know Henry Belfield, of B — ?” Phyllis asked, 
with a view to making sure that she had the person 
sought. 

“I do,” was the reply. 

“I have accidentally learned that you have in your 
possession a package that, pursuant to a trust, you in- 
tend to deliver, if possible, to one Casper Carson; and 
that this package is much coveted by Mr. Belfiefd and his 
lawyer, Josiah Junkin.” 

“Well?” 

“They suspect that this package contains a will that 
they are anxious to get possession of; and they will 
make desperate efforts to secure it. I have felt that I 
should warn you, for I — I have reason to believe them 
to be unscrupulous and desperate men.” 

“Your reasons are well founded. I am very much 
indebted to you for your kindly interest; but, of what you 
say, I am fully conscious, and I Have been watching 
closely, expecting them to make some aggressive move.” 

96 


Eminent Respectability. 

“You must be particularly on guard against a man 
named Hicks. Here is a letter that I received from him 
when I received yours. It gives his name and address. 
Mr. Junkin has employed him to try to get possession of 
the package, and this shows that he is already on the 
move. He has seen my advertisement, and thought, I 
suppose, that what would interest you might also interest 
him.” 

Fanny took the letter, and for some time sat wrapped 
in thought. Finally, speaking in a low soliloquizing tone, 
she said: “Mr. Hicks’s mission doubtless includes more 
than getting possession of the coveted will. The fact of 
my existence is a discomfort to them that a potion, given 
to me in a glass of wine, might relieve. I wonder what 
alias Mr. Hicks will use,” she added, with a smile. “This 
letter will be very convenient. I must contrive to get a 
furtive look at him before he becomes somebody else.” 
“I presume that you are ignorant as to whose will they 
are looking for?” she said, again turning to Phyllis. 

“Quite so,” said Phyllis, who was terrified by what 
Fanny had said. 

Fanny again lapsed into silence, and remained thinking 
until aroused by Phyllis’s rising to depart. 

“Pardon me,” she said, looking up. “I presume that 
you also learned who I am?” 

“Only by inference,” replied Phyllis. 

“Do you infer that I am a daughter of Henry Belfield?” 

“Indeed, no!” gasped Phyllis, sinking into Her chair 
again. 

“Then your inference is wrong.” 

“I thought, from what I overheard,” said Phyllis, after 
a moment of silence, “that — that you were a grand- 
daughter of Joel Webster.” 

97 


Eminent Respectability. 


“Quite right,” replied Fanny. “My true name is Helen 
Belfield. My mother, before she married Henry Bel- 
field, was Elizabeth Webster. Owing to her youth, the 
marriage was kept a secret; and shortly before I was 
born my father, seeing an opportunity to marry a rich 
girl, took advantage of this secrecy to disclaim it. He 
destroyed the marriage certificate; and my mother could 
recall neither the names of the witnesses, nor that of the 
clergyman who married them, nor could she locate the 
latter’s residence, to which she had been driven after 
dark. Hence, she had no means of establishing the fact 
of the marriage, and was cast off into despair and dis- 
grace. I know this from my mother, who, whatever may 
have been her frailties, was the soul of truth and good- 
ness.” 

“I believe it,” faltered Phyllis, whose lips had grown 
pale. “It is terrible. Oh, how I pity her!” 

After another brief silence, Fanny looked at Phyllis 
and said: “I suspect that you are a member of Mr. Bel- 
field’s family, which, if true, accounts for your having 
overheard what you have so kindly come to apprise me 
of. I would not have mentioned this, did I not further 
suspect that you are his niece, and that your interests are 
in some way connected with this will that they are so 
anxious to recover. Is my conjecture correct?” 

“Yes; at least as to my identity.” 

“Then let me caution you to keep a close watch on 
your uncle. And, if you will pardon the presumption, I 
advise you to get a good lawyer to secretly investigate 
your property interests.” 

This last remark was lost upon Phyllis; she having be- 
come absorbed in a train of thought started by the one 
preceding it. “Here is a maze,” she said, inwardly, “that, 

98 


Eminent Respectability. 

were it cleared up, would probably reveal the secret of 
my uncle’s desire that I marry George Junkin. Yet, it 
is so strange that this union could in any way further 
his interests. What can possibly be his object? Tell 
me,” she said, laying her hand on Fanny’s arm, “how is 
my uncle’s turpitude to be explained? He is not, and 
never has been, necessitous. On the contrary, he had 
had everything in superabundance. This is a mystery to 
which I have no clue.” 

“That is a psychological problem quite beyond my 
powers, my dear,” replied Fanny. “I know, however, 
that men of his type — and women, too — are always neces- 
sitous. It is not food, and raiment, and shelter, and 
service, that is needed for their happiness, but priority 
and power. I have read somewhere that the elder Astor 
once said that, if he owned all of America but one acre, 
he would not be contented until he got that last acre also. 
And so it is with all men who thirst for power. Nothing 
less than the absolute sovereignty over the human race 
would appease their appetence; and it is probable that, 
should they attain that, they would then yearn, like Alex- 
ander, for another world to subdue. In other words, it 
is a matter of ambition. Your uncle wants money, not 
for the satisfaction of physical needs, nor for the gratifi- 
cation of a miser’s lust, but because its possession gives 
power and priority over men.” 

“Ah, I understand,” said Phyllis, thoughtfully. The 
inner eye was broadening its field of vision. “You will 
keep the circumstance of my giving you this information 
a secret?” she added, after a brief pause. 

“Certainly.” 

“Thank you, cousin. You will let me call you cousin?” 

99 


Lof C. 


Eminent Respectability. 


“Of course,” replied Fanny, with a look of mingled 
pleasure and surprise. 

“I am about to take up my residence in New York, 
with a view to devoting myself to music. Here is my 
address. Should any exigency arise in which it will be 
possible for me to serve you, do not hesitate to call upon 
me. I trust that I may have the pleasure of seeing you 
occasionally?” 

“Thank you. You are very kind, indeed; but it will be 
best that you do not,” said Fanny, with manifest feeling. 

Phyllis was very strongly impressed by her newly- 
found cousin. She had at once recognized in her a 
woman of education and superior mental strength; and, 
ere ten minutes had been passed in her company, she 
could think of her only as one to be admired and loved. 
She was manifestly a woman of strong passions — one 
who could probably hate intensely — but certainly one 
who could love warmly and loyally. Oblivious, for the 
moment, to the fact of her taint (of which she had 
learned from the conversation between her uncle and 
Junkin) — forgetful of society’s discriminations and de- 
crees — her heart went out to her as to a sister mortal of 
unusual worth, and of unusual sorrow and affliction. She 
felt no personal superiority in her presence; but, on the 
contrary, regarded her with the deference due to ex- 
ceptional strength of character. With this feeling of 
respect was fused one of commiseration, aroused by the 
story of her mother’s wrong and those depredations 
upon her rather handsome face that were unmistakably 
the work of sorrow and misfortune. Her merits and her 
woes were real, perceptible, depicted in things corporeal 
and definite. Her stain was conventional, relative, in- 
tangible, a thing of the imagination, and, hence, absent 
loo 


Eminent Respectability. 

from the innocent and sympathetic mind of the gentle 
Phyllis. 

The business of the interview being finished, she was 
about to speak of the Websters, relate the circumstance 
of her rescue by the heroic Alex, and ask if she could 
be the bearer of any message to them, when this last re- 
mark of Fanny’s brought her to the sudden realization 
of the latter’s unfortunate position, her hopeless isola- 
tion, and the palpable impropriety of any reference to 
her kindred. As this dawned upon her, her sympathy 
and commiseration overcame her self-control; and, as 
she arose to depart, big limpid tears, as pure as those 
which Douglass shed upon the head of Ellen, rolled 
down her fresh young cheeks. As the two young women 
embraced and kissed, the scene was one of sisterly affec- 
tion, with no suggestion of the great gulf, retrogressively 
impassable, that yawned between them, separating the 
bright precincts of respectability from the fuliginous 
regions of social ostracism and despair. 


lOI 


CHAPTER X. 


“When vice prevails and impious men bear sway, 

The post of honor is the private station.” — Addison. 

Affected by conditions more or less local, human 
thoughts, though less mobile — figuratively speaking — 
than the molecules of water and air, will yet, like them, 
sometimes lose their usual equilibrium; and many, in 
close proximity, taking up a common course, will form a 
current, of greater or less compass, volume, force, and 
eccentricity. To so-called “leading” minds — minds 
whose owners enjoy positions that are exceptionally de- 
sirable — these currents, or movements, are very objec- 
tionable. They, like swine that are all fours in the 
trough, protest strenuously against all disturbing influ- 
ences. Such minds are called “conservative,” as they 
wish to “conserve” their advantage, by having things 
remain in status quo. Nevertheless, it is only by these 
movements that the world really progresses; that long- 
standing wrongs are righted, and human affairs put on a 
more and more equitable basis. When one of these dis- 
turbances develops cataclysmal force — force sufficient to 
overwhelm a government or dislodge a dynasty — it is 
called a “revolution.” When not sufficient for this, but 
yet of cyclonic power and disturbing influence, it is 
called a “rebellion,” “insurrection,” or “reform,” accord- 
ing to the particular nature of the resulting action. And 
102 


Eminent Respectability. 

when — as is usually the case — it is but a more or less 
trivial flurry, or gust, confined to narrow limits, it is 
called a “spasm of political virtue.” Though these 
“spasms” are necessarily of very short duration — usually 
amounting to little more, figuratively speaking, than a 
passing rap on the ham of a pig seen to be monopolizing 
the trough of food, or fouling it with its feet — it is never- 
theless due to them that we occasionally have the phe- 
nomenon of an honest and upright man occupying, for a 
brief period, a place of public trust. 

At the time of which we write, one of these spasms was 
manifesting itself among the voters of the assembly dis- 
trict that embraced the town of B — . As usual, there 
were several contributing causes — some of national, but 
mostly of local, significance. Business was in a pro- 
nounced state of general depression, which condition 
always has a disquieting tendency, and public oflicials — 
national, state, and municipal — had become recklessly 
extravagant, and unpleasantly open and candid in their 
professional practices; in addition to which, was the per- 
haps controlling circumstance that the legislative incum- 
bent who desired to succeed himself had failed in several 
particulars to meet the requirements of the more active- 
minded, exacting, fastidious, and querulous voters of his 
party. The first timorous criticisms having fallen upon 
willing ears and been repeated by busy tongues, they had 
been followed by others more and more bold and defiant; 
and soon growing into rumors, and from rumors swell- 
ing into ominous murmurs, they had finally developed a 
little whirlwind of opinion that, having taken the local 
“slate-making” politicians by surprise, was now carrying 
them temporarily off their feet. 

These righteously indignant citizens, however, had the 

103 


Eminent Respectability. 

usual difficulty with the matter of a candidate. A diffi- 
culty that constitutes one of the principal drawbacks to 
popular government. A difficulty that largely explains 
the general disposition of American voters to turn the 
matter of selecting candidates over to professional office 
mongers, by whom it is reduced to the simplest of propo- 
sitions — a mere matter of trade. 

Of course, there was no dearth of men competent to 
serve, nor of men who were willing to serve, nor of men 
who wanted to serve and would promise anything and 
everything for the privilege, nor of those who felt that 
they were entitled to serve, nor of those who believed 
themselves to be peculiarly fitted to meet the exceptional 
demand of the hour; but to every one, whose personality 
was sufficient to bring him under consideration, there 
seemed to be some fatal objection. The elderly had 
histories that, though probably no more checkered than 
those of the general run of erring mortals, would be sure 
to damn them as candidates for office, while the young 
were inexperienced and without personal following. 
Smith was a good man, but he had been known to vote 
for democrats. Jones, another good man, was suspected 
of agnosticism. Brown had an unpleasant directness of 
speech that had made him enemies. Thorn was unso- 
ciable; Butcher, an exacting creditor; Flint was a usurer; 
and so on, throughout the list. Indeed, it had come to 
be seriously feared that, in order to have a candidate 
against whom no fatal objection could be brought, some 
nonentity must ultimately be selected. 

At this juncture, somebody suggested the name of 
Alex Webster. Ah! Why yes. To be sure. Why was he 
not thought of before?” were the remarks immediately 
heard on every side. His name was accepted with an 
104 


Eminent Respectability. 

enthusiasm that swept all others aside. He was recog- 
nized as a young man of rare promise and strong per- 
sonality — not an ideal candidate, perhaps, but the best 
then available. He was known to be honorable, frank, 
obliging, well educated, and talented, and without a 
record to be attacked. The one objection to him was 
his youth, which he was reasonably certain to outgrow. 

To Alex, it may be truthfully said, the proposal was 
not a matter for self-congratulation. As a token of 
respect and confidence on the part of his neighbors, it 
was, of course, most gratifying; but he had no political 
aspirations, and no liking for notoriety. In fact, he had 
come to look upon a public office as a post of doubtful 
honor, and his disposition was to decline the nomination; 
but, being able to meet the importunities of his neighbors 
with nothing more than a personal disinclination, and 
being impressed with the patriotic conviction that the 
deplorable state of the public service imposed an impera- 
tive duty upon an honest man to serve when asked to do 
so, he was finally prevailed upon to accept. 

We may be assured that all this was wormwood and 
gall to Mr. Henry Belfield. His annoyance, however, 
was not so much due to the personality of the candidate, 
as to the fact of his prescriptive function having been 
thus insolently assumed by the voters. The former 
might, in itself, be the cause of more or less vexation; 
but the latter struck at the very vitals of his power, and, 
if persisted in, would be the ruin of republican institu- 
tions, and perhaps of civilization itself. But, as his posi- 
tion in the world would indicate, he was pre-eminently 
practical, and not a man to either “kick against the 
pricks,” or to turn from a situation that might be suc- 
cessfully met. He was too shrewd to manifest pique, or 

105 


Eminent Respectability. 

to evince any disapproval of movements of this kind, or 
to openly decline to accept a popular verdict. Nor did 
he allow personal dislikes to in any degree hamper him 
in the attainment of desired ends. Whether he would 
run a straight course, or a circuitous -one; whether he 
would construct on a level, or on an inclined plane — of 
rock, gravel, or sand — whether he would use a candi- 
date of his own selection, or one whose selection he could 
not prevent — were purely matters of exigency and prac- 
tical detail. Hence, while he was greatly annoyed by 
what had happened, he was quite ready to swallow his 
displeasure and accept the popular nominee of his party 
with ostensible grace, providing he should prove to be 
“kind and gentle in harness.” His first step was to see 
the young man and “look him over.” 

Of Alex’s origin, Belfield knew more than did Alex 
himself; but, notwithstanding this, he was quite unac- 
quainted with his mental qualities and idiosyncrasies, be- 
yond the fact of knowing him to be high-spirited. For, 
as we have already observed, Belfield associated very 
little with his immediate neighbors; and he came to know 
them only as they made themselves useful to him, or 
burst into his field of vision in some such manner as 
Alex -had now done. Accidentally meeting him on the 
street a few evenings after the nomination, he seized 
upon the opportunity to congratulate him. With every 
appearance of sincerity, he expressed a wish for his suc- 
cess, and invited him to acompany him home to talk over 
the coming campaign. Alex complying, the two men 
passed about two hours together, which was long enough 
for each to form a pretty accurate estimate of the other. 
At this interview, Belfield did not blunder, as he did at his 
interview with Fanny. He did not lay himself open to 
io6 


Eminent Respectability. 

surprise, by a false assumption as to the character and 
caliber of his auditor. On the contrary, he proceeded 
with extreme caution and with consummate skill. He 
carefully avoided giving offense, entered into no argu- 
ment, made no adverse criticisms upon anything that 
Alex said, and — ^what was most significant — he in no way 
committed himself. Yet, so adroitly were his questions 
framed and so keen were his observations, that, at the 
end of the interview, he knew his man “like a book.” As 
he turned back into the room after seeing Alex out, he 
expressed his conclusion in five short words — “Too 
smart for his ideas;” which, more fully expressed, meant 
that the young man was intelligent and had high ideals. 
Neither of these characteristics constituted, in itself, a 
serious objection; but joined together, as they were in 
this case, by a bull-dog resoluteness — a firm, iron- 
clamped rigidity of purpose — they made a combination 
that was utterly useless — to Henry Belfield. 

Nor was Alex, on his part, any more deceived, or less 
observing. 

As he walked away, he inwardly expressed it as his 
opinion, that Henry Belfield was a man that this world 
could spare with profit. 

For some weeks, the election of Alex seemed assured. 
He was the candidate of the party then dominant in that 
district, and many voters of the opposite party declared 
their intention to support him. He was spoken of in 
the highest terms. The only sign of defection from his 
cause was the equivocal attitude of the local paper, which 
early in the campaign entered upon a mild, faltering hos- 
tility. But, as the election drew near, the situation 
rapidly changed. Beyond making a few speeches, Alex 
did nothing to advance his cause, while his opponent, a 
107 


Eminent Respectability. 

man of discreditable fame, who had always lived on his 
wits and spent the greater part of his time hanging about 
the tavern — who had been known to beat his wife, whom, 
together with her four children, he had since deserted — 
had conducted his campaign with tireless energy. Hos- 
tile comment was now being made with ever-increasing 
frequency and recklessness. Business was bad, and the 
country needed a change. The tariff must be revised, 
and this could only be done through a change in the 
political complexion of the several state legislatures, 
which elect the national senators. The dominant party 
had filled the offices with rascals, and it must be scourged. 
As to the candidate, he was a mere boy. What did he 
know about politics? A sorry figure he would cut 
among the old ‘founders” at the state capitol ! The pre- 
sumption of the callow prig! He should be content to 
hoe corn for a few years longer, while his beard grew and 
his vertebrae stiffened. Moreover, he had been known 
to utter political heresies, and was believed to have 
strong leanings toward socialism and anarchism, and 
communism, and, in fact, all isms. There were those who 
would swear that they had heard him say, that, in his 
opinion, no nation could tax itself rich. It was reason- 
ably certain that he was an infidel, for the works of Vol- 
taire, Renan, Hume, Mill, Shelly, Byron and Spenser were 
in his library, and he had been actually seen reading the 
Rights of Man! “This Christian country,” it was said, 
“will never tolerate the election of such men to public 
office. They are not safe, and really ought to be im- 
prisoned or drummed out of the country.” Who was he, 
anyhow? He was known to be a “cuckoo.” Who were 
his parents? That was what many persons wanted to 
io8 


Eminent Respectability. 

know, and what voters had a right to know, but what 
nobody could or would tell. 

All these things were faithfully printed in the local 
paper, as rumors and quotations; but they were never 
confirmed by the editor, who, in fact, often solemnly de- 
precated them. 

The origin of the last fling, which was very annoying 
to Mr. Belfield, was never clearly ascertained; but it 
could probably have been run to earth in the locality 
from which the Websters had moved while Alex was a 
baby. 

A few days before the election, Alex, while on his way 
into town, met Mr. Fullerton, who was thoroughly fa- 
miliar with the local phases of rural politics, and com- 
petent to give sound practical advice. “Alex,” he said, 
“theyTe after you strong. My advice is, if ye kin raise 
four or five hundred, put it out. If ye don’t. I’m afraid 
ye’ll git licked. Giles (Alex’s opponent) has got barrels 
of money from som’ers, an’ he’s spendin’ it like water. 
An’ I’ll lay a cow to a chestnut that Belfield can tell 
where he gits it. He^s the feller that’s cuttin’ ye in the 
back, Alex, an’ he’s the feller that’s fixed Tom Elkinton 
(the editor). His crowd don’t want you down at Tren- 
ton, Alex; an’ there’s no riddle about the why. Giles ’ud 
suit ’em better; ’specially if he goes under obligations. 
But don’t let ’em down ye, Alex — as they will, if ye 
don’t go at it right. I know of at least a dozen who were 
strong fer you till Giles tapped his barrel, then changed; 
an’ of course, there’s a good many who don’t say. Old 
man Tull borrowed five hundred dollars from the bank 
t’other day on the endorsement of Bill Hayes, which was 
given, no doubt, at the instigation of his friend Belfield; 
an’ it’s clear enough that that means five Tull votes fer 

109 


Eminent Respectability. 

Giles. There^s no use holden back, Alex, or tryin’ to 
interduce new methods. It won’t do. Play by the rules 
of the game, er ye’ll git licked. I want to see ye ’lected, 
my boy, although ye don’t b’long to my party, an’ I’ll do 
ev’ry thing I kin fer ye. I’ve already fixed the old man 
Jordan, on my own account. I give him two bushels of 
potaters, an’ a promise of work if you’re ’lected.” 

“Not a cent,” replied Alex, in his decided manner. “I 
have not asked for the office, and I will not ask for a 
vote — much less buy one. I was asked to stand, and 
consented as a civic duty. Now, if they don’t see fit to 
elect me unless I bribe them. I’ll stay at home.” 

“The people want ye, all right, Alex,” said Fullerton, 
“but human nature can’t resist the temptation of ready 
cash. Ev’ry man that sells his vote to Giles will hope 
fer your election, but feel that his vote won’t make any 
difference in the result. It’s altogether a matter of 
handlin’ the situation.” 

“Well, then,” said Alex, “the situation is filthy, and I 
shall not soil my hands with it. I shall never represent 
a bribed constituency.” 

“Then I’m afraid ye’ll never represent any,” replied 
Fullerton, with a dubious motion of his head. 

“Perhaps not. I shall certainly never ask to. Pm 
obliged to you for your kindly interest, Mr. Fullerton,” 
was Alex’s final reply, “but I cannot act on your sugges- 
tion. I shall leave the matter entirely to the voters, for 
them to deal with in their own way.” 

And he did. And, when the votes were counted, Alex 
was found to be defeated by a considerable majority. 
Relative to the result, he made but one comment, and 
this with characteristic brusqueness and disregard of con- 
sequences. “I have but one thing to regret,” he said to 

ITO 


Eminent Respectability. 

those who expressed their disappointment at his defeat. 
“I regret that, in making a choice between me and a 
characterless scoundrel, my fellow citizens apparently 
chose the latter. Their action does not convince me that 
I have overvalued myself; but it compels me to lower my 
estimate of their moral and intellectual worth; and the 
necessity for doing this, I confess, saddens my heart.” 

A very foolish speech, to be sure. But then, it was the 
truth, ingenuously expressed; and Alex was a bucolic 
youth, reared in rural simplicity and Sunday-school 
fatuity, and he had yet to learn, that Wisdom keeps truth 
in a dark closet, and uses speech to hide the thought. 


Ill 


CHAPTER XL 


“But now, I am cabin’d, cribb’d, confin’d, bound in 
To saucy doubts and fears.” 

— Shakespere, Macbeth. 

Although the fact that Alex was not to represent his 
district in the state legislature in itself caused him no 
mental perturbation, some of the results of his standing 
for office did. The enthusiastic faith in the political vir- 
tues of his fellow countrymen and the superiority of 
American institutions that had resulted from his early 
teachings had been considerably modified by the broader 
knowledge drawn from recent readings and reflections, 
and it was now almost destroyed by the demonstrations 
of the campaign. This, as he truthfully said, made him 
sad; for his public spirit consisted in a devotion to the 
general good of mankind, and his patriotism in a desire 
to see his own country leading in its promotion. To him, 
the fact that his country outstripped others in the growth 
of population, material wealth and military strength, was 
a matter of little consequence. Indeed, he conceived 
that these might in reality prove to be evils, and even 
sources of national weakness, rather than of strength. 
With Goldsmith, he believed that 

“111 fares the land, to hastening ills a prey. 

Where wealth accumulates and men decay.” 

The thing to be desired, as he thought, was the moral 

II2 


Eminent Respectability. 

exaltation of man, not the material exaltation of men — 
nor of nations. He liked to feel, as he had felt, that his 
country was an effulgent example to the rest of the world 
in virtue and wisdom, and in all that makes for progress 
toward the goal of ethical perfection. He now had dis- 
quieting doubts as to the relative position of his own 
countrymen in this respect, and a positive conviction as 
to the remoteness of the desired goal. In brief, Alex 
was what the world calls a “pessimist,” which means that 
he had a disagreeable persistency in calling things by 
their own names, and that he did not forsake rejected 
truth, to gain the plaudits and favors of men. 

But what caused him the greatest uneasiness was the 
reference made to his identity. Knowing that a candi- 
date for office should be prepared to hear all manner of 
silly and malicious personalities, he had at first thought 
nothing of it; but there was something about the manner 
in which it was repeated and received that at length 
greatly annoyed and alarmed him. He had noted that 
his parents, on learning of it, instead of smiling at such 
silly meanness, had looked grave, and seemed ill at ease; 
and, while riding in a railway car a day or two before the 
election, he had overheard one of two men who occupied 
the seat in front of him say to his companion: “They 
say that he is a grandson. That the Websters had a 
daughter who went wrong, and whose child they took as 
their own, the mother eventually drowning herself.” 
There immediately arose in Alex’s mind an uneasiness 
that he was unable to suppress ; and each succeeding day 
marked a further stage in the development of an intoler- 
able uncertainty that had now— a fortnight later — come 
to weigh upon him like an incubus. He had little of 
what may be called conventional pride. He would not 

113 


Eminent Respectability. 


have been much disturbed by knowledge of illegal rela- 
tions on the part of his progenitors, if such relations were 
free from imposition; but uncertainty as to his immediate 
origin was intolerable, and he paled at the thought of the 
possibility of the identity of one of his parents remaining 
forever unknown to him. Rid himself of this uncertainty 
he must, and, of course, there was but one way by which 
it could be done — he must learn the truth from his 
parents, grandparents, god-parents, or whatever they 
might be. Seizing upon his first good opportunity, which 
came one night when, after Mrs. Webster and Emily had 
retired, he found himself alone with his father by the 
sitting-room fire, he said: 

“Father, is there any truth in this rumor relative to 
my origin?” 

Mr. Webster’s countenance showed that this question 
greatly disturbed him. As he made no immediate reply, 
Alex added: “I find myself in an intolerable state of un- 
certainty, Father, from which you must relieve me. I 
infer from your silence that the rumor is not unfounded?” 

“No, Alex.” 

“I see it’s a painful subject. Father.” 

“Yes, Alex.” 

“It is true, then, that you and mother are not my 
parents?” 

“Yes, Alex; it’s true.” 

“I have heard it said, that you had a daughter who 
went astray and subsequently drowned herself, and that 
I am the issue of her wrong. Is this true?” 

“Her wrong was not the wrong that you suspect,” re- 
plied Mr. Webster, with deep emotion. “It consisted, 
originally, in mere youthful imprudence — a secret mar- 
riage — but she herself was terribly wronged, Alex — 
terribly wronged, and driven to despair, poor girl.” 

1 14 


Eminent Respectability. 

“Why have you permitted me to grow up in ignorance 
of this, Father?’^ 

“We came to think that you might never know, and 
that, if this were possible, it would be best. Some day. 
I’ll tell you all about it, Alex; but I have reasons for not 
wishing to discuss the subject now.” 

Alex was loath to press the subject against his father’s 
wish, particularly, in his present distressed state of mind. 
There would no longer be the incubus of uncertainty to 
torture him, and he could wait for such details as he 
might find himself desirous of knowing. One thing, 
however, he wished to know: “Father,” he said, “does 
Emily know anything of this?” 

“She knows of her elder sister, but not of your identity.” 

“Very well. Father, I see that you are distressed; so 
we will not pursue the subject any further to-night. You 
can tell me about it sometime when you are composed. 
In the meantime, let me say, that I am fully conscious of 
having lacked in no particular the care and affection of 
the best of parents; and the fact of my not being your 
own son makes your conduct toward me all the more 
praiseworthy.” 

So this mean rumor — the bitter fruit of a political 
campaign — was confirmed: Alex had been reared with 
a false identity. Alexander Webster was in reality Alex- 
ander something else. What news to a young man of 
pride and spirit! What a transition! Yet, strange to 
say, his feeling, as he went to bed that night, was one of 
great relief. Up to three weeks before, he had felt a pride 
in being the son of Joel and Elizabeth Webster: now, 
he felt a relief on learning positively that he was not! 
Such had been the effect of three weeks of harrowing un- 
certainty, that he now felt only relief, in contemplating 

115 


Eminent Respectability. 


his change of position. He now felt that there was much 
in the situation to make him feel sad, but nothing at 
which he need blush. This new mother, who could never 
be anything more to him than a tradition — ^whom he 
could know only as a figment of his imagination — now 
occupied his thoughts and stirred his sympathies. He 
was certain that the daughter of Joel and Elizabeth Web- 
ster could not have been otherwise than good and pure ; 
and, as he lay on his pillow that night, he drew a mental 
likeness of what he felt that she must have been, and 
fancying her wrongs and her sufferings, he clinched his 
teeth and wept. 

Within the last year, he had become conscious of a 
power that he had not previously suspected of being one 
of his possessions. His years of hard study and wide 
reading had developed a scholarship that, as it ripened, 
asserted itself and demanded expression, which he had, 
very much to his own surprise, found himself capable of 
giving it. Through the kind intercession of a friend, he 
had been allowed to contribute several special articles to 
a New York newspaper; and, so favorably had they been 
received, that he had been offered a place on the paper’s 
regular staff. The salary offered was meager, but more 
than sufficient for meeting expenses; and, feeling that 
the place would probably be a favorable entrance to a 
profession for which his talents and tastes best fitted him, 
he decided toward the latter part of November to ac- 
cept it. 

He had learned nothing further relative to his identity. 
There had grown within him a strong desire to learn 
something more definite of the circumstances surround- 
ing his mother’s death; but, as Mr. and Mrs. Webster 
had been deeply affected by this reopening of their old 
wound, and seemed averse to speaking of it, he had not 
ii6 


Eminent Respectability. 

pressed them to do so. All that he had learned was, 
that she was a high-spirited, though kind-hearted young 
woman ; dark, like Emily, and that she had been drowned 
in New York harbor about six years previously. This 
information relative to the period of her death had 
caused him the severest pang that he had yet received. 
He had supposed her death to have occurred during his 
infancy. He now felt that he understood the reluctance 
of her parents to speak of her, and perceived the indeli- 
cacy of urging them to do so. Once located in New 
York, however, it occurred to him to look for informa- 
tion from other sources. The newspaper files gave him 
a clue. From them, he learned that Elizabeth Webster, 
who had been known for years as Alice Fisher, was 
drowned in the North River, supposedly by her own act, 
and taken to the morgue, from which place she was re- 
moved by her relatives or friends. The report also gave 
the house in which she had lived; but, upon inquiry, Alex 
learned that it had since been occupied by several ten- 
ants, and twice sold. The present occupant could give 
him no information whatever. But, he never despaired 
of ultimate success. He had no thought of abandoning 
the search when the trail was lost in the shadowy laby- 
rinths of metropolitan life. Pretty much all his spare 
time was spent in a search that involved hunting up and 
interviewing former tenants of the house in which she 
had lived and of the houses on either side. 

Thus was he occupied, dividing his waking hours sys- 
tematically between his work and his search, while the 
wintry days and weeks sped by. When December had 
gone and January had come, Alex had neither lost in 
zeal and fixity of purpose, nor gained— other than nega- 
tive — information. 

117 


CHAPTER XII. 


*‘Mach . — If we should fail — 

Lady M . — We fail! 

But screw your courage to the sticking-place, 

And we’ll not fail.” — S hakespere. 

“How is Hicks making out, Junkin?’^ said Henry Bel- 
field to his man of law, while in the latter’s private office 
one day early in January. 

“He hasn’t been able to do anything with the girl; and 
he thinks that she has found Carson.” 

“He thinks she has? Why?” 

“Because her advertisements have been withdrawn.” 

“Does he know whether she has met Carson, or not? 

“He says that he is positive that she has not, as she has 
not been away from home.” 

“But he may have come to her.” 

“I think not. Hicks has kept a close watch.” 

“Junkin, in my opinion, Hicks is no good. There is 
no good reason whatever why he should have failed to 
handle a woman like that.” 

“She is a smart girl, Belfield.” 

“I told you that. But there are ways by which she 
might have been reached, by one who understood his 
business.” 

“She has been exceedingly cautious, and must have 
been put on her guard. You know how she bowled 
ii8 


Eminent Respectability. 

Hicks out at the start. Since then, she has gone out 
very little, and has been well guarded. She has friends, 
you know; and one of them would have probably put 
Hicks out for good, but for timely interference.^^ 

“He is afraid of her, I think.’’ 

“And I don’t suppose you wonder much at that, after 
your own experience with her?” 

“Junkin, the situation is ugly. If Carson gets hold of 
that will, I will lose a great deal of money, as you know ; 
but that’s not the worst. I can afford to lose the money; 
but I can’t afford to have that girl and Carson meet. 
\^''hat she knows, and what they both suspect are quan- 
tities unknown to me, but particularly dangerous because 
they are unknown. Carson, of course, bears me ill will. 
Besides, he was a warm friend of my brother’s, and urged 
him to contest those wills. If the girl should give him 
a clue, he would be certain to make trouble.” 

“Your mind is too much exercised by possibilities, 
Belfield. What you fear, I don’t think at all probable.” 

“I can’t afford to have it probable, Junkin. Now, I have 
just this to say: I don’t think that Hicks has shown 
much tact. Had he been swift, he would have found 
Carson before the girl did. I don’t like to put any one 
else on the case, because the fewer the people who know 
one’s business, the better. But he must locate Carson 
at once, and ascertain whether or not he has already • 
received that package. If he has, Hicks must see him at ^ 
once and bring it away with him. If he has not, then he 
must not; and he and the girl must not meet. Do you 
understand, Junkin?” 

“Of course.’’ 

“Now, do you think Hicks equal to the task?” 

“As much so as any one.” 

119 


Eminent Respectability. 


“Well, unless he accomplishes something quickly, I 
shall put someone else on the job. I can’t stand any 
more dilly-dallying. As an extra incentive, I will add 
another thousand to the figures; but he must do some- 
thing. And there is something else. This girl may 
learn of my niece’s residence in New York, and go to the 
trouble of finding her out. Should she finally abandon 
her search for Carson, and find herself possessed of the 
will, she would be sure to turn it over to Phyllis, together 
with her troubles. These two must not meet, Junkin.” 

“Damn it, Belfield, why didn’t you keep the girl with 
you?” 

“I couldn’t, Junkin. There is no doing anything with 
her, against her will. She seems meek enough, I know; 
but wait until you come to know her.” 

“It seems to me, Belfield,” said Junkin, testily, “that 
you are as singularly weak in accomplishing anything 
yourself as you are extravagant in demanding of others.” 

“We won’t discuss that, Junkin. But they must not 
meet; or, if they do, I must learn of it at once. Now, 
will you impress upon Hicks the necessity of doing some- 
thing?” 

“Or else of giving up the task; yes. As I bethink me, 
I am pretty sure that he said he had located Carson.” 

“Then let him lose no time in seeing him. Report 
results to me at once, Junkin. Good-bye.” 

As Mr. Belfield left his lawyer’s office, one who knew 
him well might have observed that an expression of seri- 
ousness quite unnatural to him was settling upon his 
usually placid face. 


120 


CHAPTER XIII. 

“Wine and Truth, is the saying.” — Buckley. 

On the east side of the Delaware River, about eighteen 
or twenty miles below Philadelphia, there is a large piece 
of fertile land that, before the destructive Caucasian 
made this country so completely his own, was a reedy 
marsh, covered with water at every flood tide and the 
feeding paradise for millions of small birds and water 
fowl that streamed through the valley in their migra- 
tions. Like much similar land on that side of the Dela- 
ware, it has for many years been made subservient to 
agriculture by means of a high bank, or levee, perforated 
by sluices, through which superfluous water is drained 
off during the ebbs. It is completely encircled by this 
embankment and separated from the mainland, on one 
side by a navigable tributary of the Delaware, and on 
another by what was once a broad, deep inner channel, 
but what has now become a mere “gut,” or small creek, 
owing to the silting in process caused by the banking 
operations, and seems destined to be closed entirely at 
no very distant day. 

At the time during which Alex Webster was prosecut- 
ing his search for fragments of the history of a mother 
whom he had never known; during which Phyllis Belfield 
was pursuing her studies in New York, and reflecting 
upon the wickedness of men; and during which Fanny 

I2I 


Eminent Respectability. 

Allen was conducting a search by means of newspaper 
advertisements for Casper Carson, with a view to carry- 
ing out what she conceived to be a sacred trust, — the 
accomplishment of which, Henry Belfield and Josiah 
Junkin were making strenuous efforts to prevent, — there 
lay anchored in this gut, near where it opened into the 
navigable stream referred to, a small white sloop, on the 
stern of which was painted the un-aquatic name “The 
Robin.” She was a trim and graceful craft, with a hull 
and water line much after the pattern of the oyster 
pungy; but her superstructure showed, even from the 
outside, that she was used for a floating residence, rather 
than for freighting. She had been in the immediate 
neighborhood for some months, and her crew, which con- 
sisted of a man and a dog, had become distantly familiar 
objects to the eyes of the villagers and rustics of the 
vicinity. Such, however, were the unsociable and retir- 
ing ways of both man and dog that they were known in 
the neighborhood only as “the old man and dog, of the 
Robin.” But the man was not really what is commonly 
called old; he being no more than forty-seven or eight. 
Nor did his movements indicate infirmity. On the con- 
trary, they showed the vigor and strength of a healthy 
man in middle life. He was lean and weather tanned, 
which indicated an active out-door life; but his quick, 
bright eye, like his elastic step, as yet showed no sign of 
the senescent stage. His long-neglected beard and hair, 
now streaked with gray, gave him a venerable aspect, 
however, particularly so when seen at a distance, and 
this doubtless accounted for his being called “old.” He 
was manifestly a man who designedly avoided the society 
of his fellows. He kept his boat anchored off, so that it 
could not be approached from the shore, and he never 
122 


Eminent Respectability. 

spoke to those who came near him unless first spoken to, 
and then replied as curtly as bare politeness would admit 
of. When he needed supplies from the village stores, he 
went for them at night, and never dallied after having 
done his errand. Hence, he had come to be regarded 
as a singular, and more or less mysterious, character; 
and, by those of a credulous age, as a sort of Mumbo 
Jumbo, owing to the frequent threats of exasperated 
mammas to sacrifice their truants to “the old man of the 
Robin.” 

The dog, which was no more given to the “harmless 
hypocrisies of complaisance” than his human companion, 
was a white and brindle bull-terrier; a fine specimen of 
his race, in the prime of life; healthy, sleek, and clean- 
looking, save that the nether portions of his anatomy 
had, through frequency of association, taken on the color 
of the dark, marshy soil of that locality. 

A glance at the interior of the Robin revealed some 
things quite unusual to habitations of this kind. No 
space being assigned to freighting purposes, her cabin 
was long and comparatively roomy. In the forward part 
was a small cook-stove, and in bunkers on either side, a 
supply of coal and broken drift-wood. Next to these 
were, on one side, a cupboard well filled with chinaware, 
and on the other, a similar miniature warehouse filled 
with an assortment of provisions, condiments, and so 
forth; and immediately aft of these, were, on one side, an 
apartment filled with drugs, cordials, and liquors, and, 
on the other, a series of shelves well filled with books. 
These latter indicated that they were kept here as a 
mere ornament, by an eccentric skipper, or that the lat- 
ter was a man of scholarly bent; as no other would have 
made such a selection for his personal use. In addition 
123 


Eminent Respectability. 

to a dictionary, a set of encyclopedias, a collection of 
standard historical works, the essays of Hume, Macau- 
lay, Carlisle, and Emerson, and an assortment of poetry 
and fiction, there were here modern text books which, 
taken collectively, covered pretty much the whole field 
of science and philosophy. Such a library was a strange 
thing for such an environment, truly; and we are bound 
to suspect the skipper of the Robin of being a very singu- 
lar man. Still further aft, were sleeping bunks, one on 
either side, in one of which lay a violin case; and, in a 
suitable receptacle back of these, and extending around 
back of the short stairway that led from the desk were, 
among other things, a miscellaneous assortment of fish- 
ing tackle and gunning paraphernalia, a twelve-bore shot- 
gun, a ten-bore Remington repeater, and a Winchester 
rifle. Hence, at first glance, the cabin of the Robin 
suggested the habitation of a scholarly sportsman out 
on a cruise; but a closer scrutiny, involving a peep into 
the several lockers, would have indicated that it was 
more probably a permanent abode. It was manifest, 
however, that the craft was not being used in a business 
way, and that its occupant was supplied with all that was 
needed for a tolerable degree of solid comfort. 

As we look in about six o^clock in the evening of what 
had been a fairly pleasant January day, we find the man 
and dog of the Robin about sitting down to their even- 
ing meal. We include the dog, because, as was soon 
evident, he was so far as his canine intelligence made it 
possible, on a social equality with his human companion. 
In taking his place at the table, he did not sit up on the 
seat that ran along in front of the berths, as the man did, 
but took a position on the floor of the cabin, at one side 
of the table, where he could easily avail himself of his 
friend’s orderly assistance. 

124 


Eminent Respectability. 

The repast consisted of fried muskrat, catfish, cold 
wild duck, hot shortcake, baked sweet potatoes, prunes 
and coffee. Rather simple fare, to be sure — ^with no 
soup, ices, nor pastry — ^yet, certainly wholesome enough, 
and by no means untoothsome, to man or dog who may 
have spent a January day in tramping about the marshes 
and creeks. 

In beginning their repast, no formalities were ob- 
served — no blessing asked, no thanks given. Which 
seeemed to indicate, in a measure, that life aboard the 
Robin was more brute than human — that the dog had 
adopted the man, rather than the reverse. Certainly, in 
eschewing human society, this eccentric individual had 
eschewed social proprieties also. “Not a bad day, Leon, 
my boy,” he said, looking affectionately into the up- 
turned face of the dog. Leon — Leonidas was his name 
— blinked, and tapped the floor with his truncated tail, in 
sign of assent. “But a good wholesome tramp, eh?” 
Leon again signified assent. “Verily, we have our re- 
ward, Leon. Here are the first fruits, my boy.” Say- 
ing which, the man passed the dog the fore-quarter 
of the muskrat. “Ah, Leon, it’s a safe guess that we’ll 
eat this fellow more quickly than we caught him,” he 
added, as he saw the dog swallow the quarter of the ro- 
dent with one or two preparatory crunches. “It’s the 
way of the world, Leon — long labor, brief enjoyment. 
But that’s better than the unnatural order — long en- 
joyment with a finale of disaster, eh, Leon?” Again 
Leon assented, as he looked wistfully for the second 
fruits, which came in the form of a hindquarter of the 
muskrat. “Then again, there is the anticipation, Leon; 
that’s longer than the labor, even — and as enjoyable as 
the realization, eh? Not such a bad world, Leon— when 

125 


Eminent Respectability. 

the company’s agreeable, eh?” (Here Leon got a large 
piece of shortcake, that had been dipped in the gravy.) 
“And there’s plenty of rats — and an occasional mink to 
give variety and spice to the sport, eh, boy?” Leon 
assented, with a pleased expression, and got the leg of 
a duck. 

In this strain, the conversation — if such it may be 
called — continued throughout the meal. When both 
man and dog had eaten to their full satisfaction, the 
table was pushed aside, but the conversation went on. 
“Ah Leon,” said the man, affectionately stroking the 
head of his canine companion, “if human faculties were 
but added to your open honesty, courage, generosity and 
fidelity, what an animal we would have ! But then, per- 
chance with human powers would be inevitably associ- 
ated human defects — hypocrisy, deceit, false witnessing, 
selfishness, cheating, oppression - breeding ambition. 
Alas! that such meanness must be incidental to human 
greatness! — that Nature is so given to joining extremes, 
that she must wed the greatest intelligence to the great- 
est turpitude! Better as you are, Leon; much better as 
you are — for me at least. Without man’s attributes, you 
are lovable; with them — well, you’d be a man, of course. 
And how lonely I would be without you, Leon !” 

To more emphatically express his appreciation of 
these sentiments, Leon placed his paws on the man’s 
breast, and tried to lap his face; and, as if to express his 
profound regret that his powers of communication were 
not on a par with his understanding, he uttered a plain- 
tive whine that occasionally broke into a low bark. 

Manifestly, these two beings regarded each other with 
an affection that was in no degree assumed for appear- 
ances, and that was not to be breached, or cooled, or in 
136 


Eminent Respectability. 

any manner modified by petty misunderstandings, jeal- 
ousy, rivalry, or mutual suspicion — a friendship that was 
rendered inviolable and enduring by the chasm that sep- 
arates man from the brute-. 

While engaged in these manifestations, Leonidas sud- 
denly seemed to have become petrified. Then his strong 
face clouded. The expression of pleasure and affection 
gave way to one that was fierce and warlike. Emitting 
an ominous growl, he rushed to the cabin door, asking in 
canine language to be let out; and, being obliged, he a 
moment later compelled the owner of a hand that had 
been laid upon the sloop^s rail to quickly withdraw it and 
drop back out of reach. Hearing voices outside, and 
knowing by the dog^s actions that there was an attempt 
to board the sloop, or to carry out some design with 
reference to it, the man also went on deck. 

“Call in your guard. Captain,” said a voice that came 
from a small boat just visible in the gloom, ten or fifteen 
feet from the sloop. 

“If I were to, he couldn^t do his duty,” responded the 
skipper of the Robin. 

“And if you don’t I can’t do mine.” 

“Then let the stronger survive.” 

“But I’d like a word with you. Captain.” 

“I can hear you.” 

“But I can’t talk to you here, with that damned dog 
making such a racket.” 

“Oh, I guess that you can manage to say the little that 
you can possibly have to say to me.” 

“No, but I can’t. Cap. I’d like to see you alone a few 
minutes.” 

“The dog and I are in the strictest confidence, and 
neither of us listen to what the other can’t hear.” 

127 


Eminent Respectability. 


‘‘Oh, damn your dog. Let me come in the cabin a 
minute, Cap. My friend will stay outside in our boat.” 

“If you have some business proposition to make, I can 
assure you here that the Robin is not in commission for 
traffic.” 

“I have no business proposition to make. Cap; I want 
to ask you something.” 

“That would be quite useless, for I know nothing of 
any matter that can possibly interest you.” 

“Perhaps not. Cap; but that’s what I want to find out 
to a certainty. Come, old man, call off your dog, and let 
me come in a minute.” 

“Put your question here; I may answer it inside, or 
not, as I think best.” 

“You’re damned uncivil. Cap.” 

“Yes.” 

“Well, did you ever know a woman named Elizabeth 
Webster? 

“Who am I?” ' 

“Casper Carson, as I guess.” 

“Who are you?” 

“My name’s Murphy.” 

“From New York?” 

“Yes.” 

“What is your name in New York?” 

“Now, now. Captain; that’s damned uncivil. Let me 
come in. I’ve got some good whisky, old man.” 

“So have I.” 

“Let us blend them. Cap.” 

“Well, come aboard,” said the skipper, who in a few 
kind words made Leonidas understand that the stranger 
was to be granted the almost unprecedented privilege of 

128 


Eminent Respectability. 

entering upon their domain. The dog reluctantly con- 
sented, and the trio entered the cabin.” 

The physiognomy of the visitor, as seen by the cabin 
lamp, was such as would have provoked a smile on the 
face of a child, or any one susceptible to being amused 
by odd visages. Although probably no more than thirty- 
five, the top of his rather broad head was absolutely 
hairless; and the capillary growth around the sides and 
back was cropped so short that, when he removed his 
hat, his head had the appearance of having been shaved. 
His cerebrum was set low, giving the dome of his head 
a forward slant. His lower jaw was prominent and 
strong, his mouth wide, and he had a short pug nose, and 
little round sparkling dark eyes, so set that he seemed 
to be always smiling. A guess at the nationality of his 
pre-American ancestry could have been made with no 
more certainty than could a guess at the winning ticket 
in a lottery. Manifestly, his face was that of a man who 
could not easily be offended, or turned from a purpose 
by anything milder than kicks or whisky. 

“A rather strange selection of the time o’ day for your 
visit, Mr. Murphy — if that is what you wish to be called,” 
said the skipper, as they became seated. 

“Just got down to-night. Captain, and I was afraid 
that, if I put it off till morning, I would miss you; which 
would be a pity, you know, as such a contingency might 
necessitate my staying in these out-of-the-way parts 
another day,” replied the visitor, who apparently took no 
notice of the subjunctive part of the skipper’s remark. 

“Humph! it’s strange what could have brought you 
into them, anyhow.” 

“I’ll tell you — say. Cap, put that damned dog out.” 

Leonidas and the stranger regarded each other with 
129 


Eminent Respectability. 


mutual distrust. Neither had taken his glance from the 
other; and the former now lay on the floor of the cabin, 
about five feet distant, with his chin resting betwee-n his 
paws, frequently reminding the other by a low growl that 
he was under strict surveillance. 

“Quite unnecessary,’’ replied the skipper. “I’ll answer 
for his good behavior.” 

“But it isn’t polite in him to stare a visitor in the face 
like that.” 

“The rules of social intercourse do not apply here. 
This craft is a little world that Leon and I have all to our- 
selves, and the proprieties of the drawing-room are not 
observed.” 

“You’re a couple of real Anarchists, eh?” 

“Perhaps.” 

“Well, Cap, you will probably recall that you did not 
say whether or not you knew Elizabeth Webster.” 

“You will probably recall that you said you had some 
good whisky.” 

“Right, you are, old man; excuse me. Got a glass 
handy?” 

The skipper produced a glass, and his visitor handed 
him a flask; whereupon the former poured out a liberal 
potion and extended it toward the other. 

“After you. Cap,” said he, waiving back the proffered 
glass. 

“Not at all. Drink,” said the skipper. 

“But you are drinking with me, old man.” 

“In compliance with your request; and I grant it only 
on the condition that I direct the proceedings.” 

“But both by the rules of sociability and the prece- 
dence given to age — ” 

“I tell you, rules do not apply here. Drink.” 

130 


Eminent Respectability. 

All right, Cap; anything to please you; but you have 
too much there for me.” 

‘‘I don’t expect to see you disparage your own liquor, 
by slighting it, sir. Liquor, like Caesar’s wife, should be 
above suspicion. I drink only the best; and the only 
recommendation of this that I can accept is your free- 
dom with it.” 

“Well, here it goes. Captain — but do put that damned 
dog out.” 

“The dog is all right; as I trust the liquor is.” 

“Elegant, I assure you.” 

The visitor having drained and returned the glass, the 
skipper poured out another potion, which he pretended 
to drink, but, in fact, deftly expectorated through an 
open window. 

“Now, Captain,” said the visitor, “your answer t® my 
question.” 

“Yes,” replied the skipper, “but we must first blend 
the brands. It wouldn’t do to take them tooi far apart. 
The effect would be lost.” 

Saying which, he brought from his cupboard a bottle 
of old brandy; and, pouring out a stiff glass, he held it 
toward the light, while he contemplated it approvingly 
and said: “Here is something that I dote on. It’s the 
very spirit of truth distilled into golden purity. It sheds 
a genial influence over its devotees, and imparts to them 
its own quality. While under its magic spell, no man 
can lie; it would have made Ananias as truthful as So- 
crates. Drink a good bumper of this elixir, my friend, 
and, my word for it, you will be a new man. It will suf- 
fuse itself from the nails of your toes to the roots of your 
hair, and into your very soul, which it will rejuvenate, 

131 


Eminent Respectability. 


and purify, and imbue with pristine innocence. This, 
like the wine of Horace’s ode. 

Can make the sage forget his care. 

His bosom’s inmost thoughts unbare. 

“My soul! the man that drinks this could not lie to 
man or devil — ^not even about his own identity.” 

Having thus recommended his liquor, he further tes- 
tified to its merits by a pretense of drinking it; but, as in 
the former instance, he practiced deception. Then, pour- 
ing out a large bumper, he passed it to his visitor, who 
protested against the quantity, but nevertheless drank it, 
and pronounced it truly excellent. The skipper again 
became seated, and seemed about to make the desired 
answer to his visitor’s inquiry when, as if inspired by a 
new thought, he suddenly arose. “Ah,” He said, “how 
unthoughtful! Here we are, snugly housed, warming 
our blood, soothing our nerves, and exalting our souls, 
all unmindful of the poor fellow sitting out there in your 
boat, in such bodily and spiritual discomfort.” 

As he spoke, he took from his cupboard a bowl that 
would hold at least a quart; into which, he poured a 
quantity of the brandy, adding sugar, a dash of nutmeg, 
a little crushed lemon peel, and a quantity of hot water 
from a tea-kettle. Having stirred this mixture until the 
sugar was dissolved, he poured out a teacupful, and re- 
quested his visitor to take it to his companion, with 
appropriate compliments. This he did, with Leonidas 
following at his heels. Taking advantage of his absence 
from the cabin, the skipper hastily poured more brandy 
into the bowl, and colored a cup of warm water with a 
few drops of molasses. In returning to the cabin, the 
stranger attempted to disconnect from Leonidas’s 
132 


Eminent Respectability. 

glance, by shutting him out; and, but for the timely in- 
terposition of the skipper, he would have come to grief. 

“For God’s sake. Captain,” he cried, “do put that 
damned dog away somewhere. He makes me feel as 
though I had the jim jams.” 

“Do nothing rash, friend, and I will answer for his con- 
duct; but you will provoke him at your peril.” 

“But he has such damned bad manners.” 

“But such excellent discernment.” 

“Must confess I can’t appreciate it, old man.” 

“Nor am I disturbed by his bad manners.” “Here,” 
added the skipper, handing the other a large teacupful of 
steaming liquid; “witness the merits of my elixir in a 
more artistic form.” 

“No more for me. Cap; I’ve had enough.” 

“Enough! You don’t like my liquor, eh?” 

“Oh, indeed I do. It’s excellent. But I’ve drunk 
enough. You go ahead, if you wish; but please excuse 
me.” 

“As a concession to you, as a part of civilized society, I 
will yield to custom to the extent of drinking with you; 
but excuse you, and drink alone, I will not.” 

There was a stern positiveness in the skipper’s man- 
ner that overcame his visitor’s objection; and, without 
further parley, they drank together — the one, stiff brandy 
and water; the other, water and molasses. 

“Now, Cap, for your answer to my question,” said the 
stranger, as the skipper again became seated. 

“Well,” replied the latter, “I don’t recall any ac- 
quaintanceship with a woman of the name you men- 
tioned.” 

“But you must have known her. Cap.” 

“I don’t recall that I ever did.” 

133 


Eminent Respectability. 


“Why, aren’t you Casper Carson?” 

“Like you, I have not revealed my identity.” 

“Why, Cap, I’ve told you that my name is — is — 
Murphy.” 

“And lied.” 

“Well! I — I must say, Cap, you’re straight out.” 

“Which you are not.” 

“Well, Cap — I don’t mind admitting that I didn’t give 
you my real name; it don’t always do to, when one is 
away from home. Ye see, I had reasons for not wanting 
it known that I was here. My real name is — ” 

“You have a card with you, of course?” 

“Well, yes. Cap; here you are.” 

“Verification of what I said about my liquor,” mut- 
tered the skipper, as he took the card and read the name 
of John R. Hicks. Thank you, Mr. Hicks.” “Now, have 
some more of this while it’s hot,” he added, pouring out 
a cup of brandy and water. Hicks — as we will now call 
the visitor — ^was no longer much inclined to object, and 
he drank off the potion without noticing that the skipper 
took but a swallow. “Now, Cap,” he said, handing back 
the empty cup, “I’ve been frank with you, you be so with 
me.” 

“I’m sorry,” replied the skipper, “but I have no card. 
However, suppose I am Casper Carson; then what?” 

“Why, then, you must have known Elizabeth Webster.” 

“That don’t follow.” 

“I — I mean the daughter of Joel Webster, a — a farmer, 
at B — . You must have known her. Cap.” 

“Not as Elizabeth Webster.” 

“As Alice Fisher, perhaps?” 

“No.” 

“Why, what other name was she known by?” 

134 


Eminent Respectability. 

“The daughter of Joel Webster that I knew was mar- 
ried ” 

“The devil ye say! Who to, Cap?^^ 

“Henry Belfield. You know him, of course?” 

At this, Hicks started violently, and his little eyes 
took on a curious expression. “Why that can’t be. Cap,” 
he said. “He married a — a — a Miss Van — ” 

“After having married and deserted the other woman.” 

“Go on. Cap! Is that straight?” 

“It is true, Mr. Hicks.” 

Hicks emitted a blast of brandy and water fumes in an 
attempt to whistle, and looked out into space. “Then,” 
he said, after a brief silence, “then he must be Fanny 
Allen’s father, eh. Cap?” 

“Who is Fanny Allen?” 

“Why! the other woman’s daughter.” 

“Oh! Yes, there’s no doubt of it.” 

“Well, Belfield is a damned scoundrel, ain’t he?” 

“Let us finish this grog, before it gets cold,” said the 
skipper, pouring out another cupful, which Hicks drank 
without hesitation. “I am surprised,” the skipper went 
on, “to hear you speak in that way of such an eminently 
respectable man. He is one of America’s most illus- 
trious sons — a star of the first magnitude in the social 
firmament, as they say. But for him, and a few of his 
ilk, American industry would have gone to the devil, and 
more than one scoundrel would now be wanting a job.” 

Hicks, whose brain was fast becoming befuddled, 
seemed, for a moment, uncertain as to how he should 
take this remark of the skipper’s; but, apparently con- 
cluding that no personality was intended, he, after a brief 
pause — during which he looked about, to make sure of 
their privacy — replied, in a low confidential tone: “All 

135 


Eminent Respectability. 

damned rot, Cap. Of course, I don’t say anything 
against Belfield; he’s a friend of mine; but, his respecta- 
bility! — O Lord! It’s all damned fudge.” 

“How so?” 

“Well, if you knew him as I do, you wouldn’t have to 
ask; ho, ho, ho! I don’t say anything against him, ye 
understand. He’s a damned good fellow to know — and 
all that; but, if people knew what I know — ^well! And, 
by God, he’s got to look out. Cap. He’s too damned 
daring. Cool as a trapped peach; but his path is getting 
narrower all the time ; and, if he slips — good-by, Henry.” 

“Nonsense!” said the skipper. “When a man gets 
high in the world, the envious always try to drag him 
down, obscure him under dark pigment, or befoul him 
with slanders. I’ve heard many mean things said of 
Belfield, which, of course, can’t be true. I’ve even heard 
it said that he got his money largely by over-reaching his 
brother.” 

“And that was no lie, either,” said Hicks, who was now 
emphasizing his words with animated gestures that were 
not looked upon approvingly by the watchful Leonidas. 
“I could tell something about that; but of course I won’t, 
as Belfield is a friend of mine, and my information is con- 
fidential.” “Have a drink, old man,” he added, producing 
his flask, “and put that damned dog out.” 

The skipper, nothing loath, wet his lips, and Hicks 
took a “drink.” 

“I’ve even heard him accused of forgery.” 

“Well,” said Hicks, with a grimace, “there’s no doubt 
that Junkin could divide his property so as to make the 
pretty little niece a great deal richer, and incidentally 
give him trouble with the criminal branch of Jersey law. 
But, of course, if young Junkin marries the niece, as he 
136 


Eminent Respectability. 


expects to do, the old man will never make trouble — 
wanting no scandal, you know.” 

“Indeed!” 

“That^s straight — hie. But I’m not saying anything, 
ye know — hie. And, Cap, that reminds me of something 
— hie — I wanted to ask you — ” 

“Have another drink,” said the skipper, passing the 
brandy and a glass. 

“Don’t mind if I do, old man — hie,” replied Hicks, 
pouring out and swallowing a large potion. 

“I’ve heard it intimated, too,” resumed the skipper, 
“that his brother’s drowning was not accidental.” 

“Well,” said Hicks, with another grimace, and a know- 
ing wink of one of his little eyes, “if that’s intimated very 
loudly — hie — there’ll be trouble for Belfield and Junkin; 
for that damned fool. Cole, couldn’t be trusted under 
fire. The best thing they can do — hie — is to get him out 
of the country — or — hie — into the earth.” 

“You don’t really suppose there is anything in it, do 
you?” 

Hicks, who was beginning to show a physical lassitude, 
despite his extravagant gestures, replied with another 
knowing wink and added: “I’m not saying anything, ye 
know. Cap. Belfield is a friend of mine, and — hie — so is 
Junkin. I’ll never squeal; but, mind what I tell you — 
hie — they’ve got to look sharp.” 

At this juncture, Leonidas became fiercely demonstra- 
tive. The man who had brought Hicks was shouting, 
and pounding on the sloop’s rail with an oar. 

“What is it, friend?” inquired the skipper, through a 
small window. 

“Tell that man, if he wants me to take him back to 
town, he must come now,” was the reply. “The tide will 

137 


Eminent Respectability. 


change in ten minutes, an^ Pm not goin^ to row back 
agin’ it, like I did cornin’ down. What’s more. Pm gittin’ 
cold out here.” 

“Tell him — hie — not to be in such a damned hurry. 
Pll be ready — hie — in five minutes,” said Hicks, who had 
overheard. 

“You’ll be ready now, — or git back some other way,” 
said the man outside. “I doubt havin’ time now to row 
up afore ebb tide.” 

“Well, Cap, old man — hie — can’t you make a place for 
me here to-night?” asked Hicks. 

“Pm sorry to decline hospitality,” replied the skipper, 
“but it’s against our constitution and by-laws, and Leon- 
idas would not permit it.” 

“Damn Leonidas! Well, Pll have to come down — hie 
— again in the morning. Cap; as there’s something I — 
hie — want to ask you.” 

Hicks, to his surprise, now found difficulty in rising; 
and the instant that he got to his feet he pitched forward, 
landing on his hands and knees within three feet of the 
dog, who was prevented from flying at him only by the 
prompt intervention of the skipper. 

“Well, damn me, if I ain’t drunk!” he exclaimed, as he 
arose by the skipper’s aid. “Strange — hie. I didn’t 
drink much; did I, Cap?” 

“Very little,” said the skipper, assisting him to the 
deck. “You are hardly drunk, Mr. Hicks. You are 
aboard of a boat you know. You haven’t got your sea 
legs yet. You’ll be all right, when you sit down.” 

“You know — hie — I didn’t say anything against Bel- 
field. Cap,” said the intoxicated man, taking the skipper 
by the arm, as he was about to be helped into the boat 
alongside. 


138 


Eminent Respectability. 


“Not a word.” 

“Good night, old man — hie. I’ll see you in the morn- 
ing.” “Go to hell! You damned — hie — devil’s hound!” 
he added, striking at Leonidas with his hat, as the boat 
swung off.” 

A moment later, the small boat was lost in the gloom, 
and the man and dog of the Robin returned to the eabin. 

“Well, Leon,” said the former, as they re-entered, “that 
fellow didn’t do his errand. He was an unfaithful servant 
who failed for want of dog sense, eh, Leon?” “I might 
have gotten more out of him,” he continued, thinking 
aloud, “if I could have held him longer, and gotten him 
drunker; but — maybe not — and keeping him here would 
have been inconvenient, and perhaps dangerous. It’s 
evident enough that somebody is giving Belfield trouble; 
but what he is trying to get out of me is a mystery. It 
may be made plain, however, when I see the girl. Let 
me see — if I remember, she is to be here Saturday.” 

As he spoke, he drew from his pocket two letters, 
pinned together; and, holding them unfolded near the 
lamp, rescanned their lines. The longer one read as 
follows: 

New York, Jan. 5, 18—. 

Mr. Casper Carson. 

Dear Sir:— Upon the death of my mother, Elizabeth Belfield, 
nee Webster, I found among her effects a sealed package with 
your name written on it in her hand; and, naturally presuming 
that she meant for you to have it, I have ever since been trying 
to find you, with a view to delivering it, but so far without suc- 

What the package contains, I do not know. Although I have 
been anxious to deliver it, and thus carry out a mother’s wish, I 
have not, until recently, supposed it to be of much worth; but I 
now have reasons to suspect that its contents are of importance 
—if not to you, then to others. 

139 


Eminent Respectability. 


If this letter reaches you, write or wire me where I can see 
you; whereupon, I will appoint a day, and bring it in person — 
not deeming it wise to entrust it to the mails or express com- 
panies. I will not ask you to come to N. Y. for it; as I per- 
ceive that you cannot well leave your boat (in which, I under- 
stand you reside, with your dog). I will bring it to you. In- 
deed, I contemplate such a trip with pleasure. 

Very respectfully, 

Helen Belfield. 

P. S. — Address, Fanny Allen, care of Hotel Royal, N. Y. 

The other letter was brief, and ran thus: 

New York, Jan. 12, 18 — . 

Mr. Casper Carson. 

Dear Sir: — Your communication of the loth is received. I 
will see you on board the Robin Saturday next. I will follow 
your directions. Yours respectfully, 

H. B. 

‘‘Let me see,” said the skipper, again thinking aloud, 
“this is Wednesday. Leon, we’ll give Mr. Hicks the 
dodge. We’ll take a sail down the river to-morrow 
morning before he’s sober, and return Friday evening 
on the flood.” 

The next day, it was remarked in the neighborhood 
that the Robin had left her moorings, and gone out to 
the river on the morning ebb. The small children 
clapped their hands and whispered their great satisfac- 
tion, thinking that Mumbo Jumbo had left the locality 
for good; but, on Saturday morning, their gladness was 
turned to disappointment, and their little faces again 
grew serious, as, through the trees that fringed the main- 
land, the familiar spars of the Robin were seen at her 
accustomed place. 

140 


CHAPTER XIV. 


“The best-laid schemes o’ mice and men 
Gang aft a-gley; 

And leave us naught but grief and pain 
For promised joy.” — Burns. 

On Saturday morning the skipper of the Robin, who 
will henceforth be known to us as Casper Carson, was up 
betimes, and engaged in a manner that would have told 
anyone acquainted with life aboard that craft that prep- 
arations were being made for some unusual occurrence. 
During the warm sunshine of the previous day, the deck 
had been carefully washed, and now, everything, inside 
and out was being put in exhibition order. In the way 
of finishing touches, Carson exchanged his soiled cloth- 
ing and top boots for a neat suit of dark corduroy and 
shoes, with a fine woolen shirt and sealskin cap as acces- 
sories, and Leonidas appeared in a broad collar that bore 
a beautifully engraved silver plate. 

The expected happened. About eleven o’clock, the 
subtle auditory sense of Leonidas detected the close 
proximity of strangers; and, from one of his small win- 
dows, Carson saw a skiff, the owner of which he had en- 
gaged to bring his expected visitor, rapidly approaching 
under sail, with a fashionably-dressed woman as one of 
her occupants. Within a few minutes, this woman stood 
on the deck of the Robin, where she was cordially re- 
ceived by the master, and— strange to say— also by the 
141 


Eminent Respectability. 


fierce Leonidas, who, after his introduction, took a pro- 
nounced liking to this be-skirted human, and received 
her caresses and compliments with manifestations of 
pleasure. 

The greetings over, they entered the cabin; and, hav- 
ing graciously expressed her admiration for the Robin 
and Leonidas, Fanny — for she it was — performed the 
business of her visit by laying a sealed package on the 
table; heaving, as she did so, such a sigh as usually de- 
notes relief from a heavy and long-borne burden. “At 
last!” she said, looking at Carson with a languid smile. 
“It is quite probable, Mr. Carson, that this package is of 
little or no consequence; but, for its value to be com- 
mensurate to recent efforts to get possession of it, it 
must be a veritable Fortunatus’s purse.” 

“Under the circumstances. Miss Belfield, there would 
certainly have been no impropriety in your opening it. 
Indeed, you ought to have done so. However, I can't 
conceive of its contents being of any consequence, except 
that an inspection of them will satisfy us that Belfield and 
Junkin are on a false scent.” 

“Ah, then you know who have been trying to get pos- 
session of it ? ” 

“Inferentially. I had a visit Wednesday evening from 
a Mr. Hicks — ” 

“Hicks! What, John R. Hicks, of New York?” 

“The same. He asked me if I knew your mother; 
and, putting your letter and his question together, I sus- 
pected at once that his visit had reference to this pack- 
age. Being under the influence of liquor, he was per- 
haps unduly communicative, and he confided to me that 
Belfield and Junkin were friends of his; from all of which 
I inferred what seems to be the truth.” 

142 


Eminent Respectability. 

‘'Yes, you were rig-ht. This Hicks has tried for months 
to get possession of this package, which I got a friend to 
lock in his safe, and I suspect that his design involves, 
also, ridding his employer of me. Fortunately, I was 
warned of his agency; and, being on my guard, I have so 
far baffled him; but I have been kept constantly on the 
qui vive, and obliged to closely scrutinize every one that 
I have come in contact with. Evidently, they also have 
been searching for Casper Carson.” 

“You astonish me. Miss Belfield! Why should Henry 
Belfield have an evil design upon you?” 

“Because I told him frankly that the principal object of 
my life was to bring him to the gallows.” 

Carson contemplated her with a grave face, but showed 
no surprise. After a brief silence, he said, reflectively: 
“Belfield is a bad man. He has much to answer for.” 
“Surely,” he added, “you have a long score against him; 
but keep a sharp lookout. Don’t you think it would be 
wise for you to leave New York?” 

“It would be safer, perhaps; but I want to be where I 
can best avail myself of an opportunity to do him harm.” 

“Well,” said Carson, taking up the package, “suppose 
we satisfy our curiosity concerning the contents of this. 
Let us hope that it doesn’t prove to be a Pandora’s box, 
instead of a Fortunatus’s purse.” 

So saying, he slit the package open with his knife and 
removed its contents, which proved to be a letter and a 
bulky document folded after the manner of legal papers. 
The letter ran thus : 

Mr. Casper Carson. 

Dear Sir:— Some time ago, while in the office of Josiah 
Junkin, Henry Belfield’s lawyer, I saw him occupied with a 
paper which, from a few glances, I guessed— and rightly, as it 

143 


Eminent Respectability. 

proved — to be the will of Alfred Belfield. Being interrupted, 
he laid the paper aside, and a short time afterward left his office 
hurriedly to attend to some business. I was to remain until his 
return; but, instead, I possessed myself of the will and left. 

I saw that, by this will, Alfred Belfield gave practically the 
whole of his estate to his nephew, Arthur Belfield, brother of 
Henry; but, upon inquiry, I learned that Henry had secured the 
bulk of it through another will, which had already been probated. 

Junkin hunted me up and accused me of taking the will, and, 
in turn, I accused him and Henry Belfield — one or both — of 
forgery, which I am sure was committed. He threatened me 
with arrest, and I threatened to hand the will over to some one 
else. To test him, I proposed burning the will in his presence, 
on the condition that he would not prosecute me. To this he 
consented; and then, knowing positively that the probated will 
was a fraud, I told him to arrest me as soon as he liked. 

He has not done so, and I have no fear that he will; but I live 
in mortal dread of Henry Belfield, who, as you know, is my 
lawful husband, and the father of my child. 

Knowing, Mr. Carson, that you also have a grievance against 
him, and believing that you would be more likely than any one 
else to use every possible weapon for his injury, it occurs to me 
that I had best turn this will over to you. By it you may put 
these villains in jail, as well as have justice done the little daugh- 
ter of Arthur Belfield. Do this, Mr. Carson, for the sake of 
Justice, as well as for revenge. Don’t let these men profit by 
their wickedness. 

And, Mr. Carson, I am going to ask of you a personal favor. 
Should anything happen to me — which I fear tliere may — be 
good enough to look after my Helen. She is a bright and good 
girl, but I tremble at the thought of her being left alone in such 
a world as this with my reputation resting upon her. Her grand- 
father Webster will doubtless see that she is cared for, and will 
possibly give her a home, if she is gotten safely into his hands, 
which I trust you will see to. I ought to have asked him to 
take her when she was a baby, which I am sure he would have 
done, but I was young and foolish, and could not bear the 
thought of being separated from her. 

I have indeed been a foolish woman, Mr. Carson; and I almost 

.144 


Eminent Respectability. 


faint when I think how much pain and sorrow my folly has 
caused my parents, and how much will probably be the portion 
of my poor Helen. I was so ignorant of the world. Oh that I 
had died before I married Henry Belfield! 

But I did not mean to annoy you with a lamentation. I in- 
close the will, with which I trust you will succeed; and, should 
you ever have occasion to serve me in accordance with the wish 
herein expressed, I am sure that you will be rewarded by 
Heaven’s benediction. 

Yours very truly, 

Elizabeth Belfield, nee Webster. 

New York, Oct. lo, i8 — . 

For some time after finishing the letter, Carson re- 
mained silent. He took up the document, glanced 
through it; and, laying it down, again fell into medita- 
tion. Finally, turning to Fanny, he said: “The sus- 
picions of these men have been well founded. They have 
been on the right trail. This is the will of Alfred Bel- 
field, Henryks uncle, and by it he has bequeathed nearly 
the whole of his estate to his nephew Arthur. In the 
meantime, Henry has possessed himself of the greater 
part of it; and, manifestly, if this will comes to light, he 
will be divested of it. At least, he will be put to ugly 
and expensive litigation. Hence, he probably wishes to 
destroy it, which he has hitherto been prevented from 
doing by the fact of your mother getting possession of 
it. It is a great pity,” he added, as a tear crept down 
either of his leather-like cheeks, “that I did not get this 
immediately upon your mother’s death; or, what would 
have been better still, before it.” He could not repel 
the thought that, in the latter event, she might possibly 
have been still alive. At any rate, what a difference 
might there possibly have been in the fate of the woman 
now before him! 


145 


Eminent Respectability. 


“As I understand it,” said Fanny, after a moment’s re- 
flection, “the result of this will being carried out would 
be that Henry Belfield would be obliged to relinquish a 
considerable part of his property to his niece. Isn’t that 
so?” 

“Yes.” 

“Then, surely, little or no loss need result to her from 
this lapse of time. From a business standpoint, her 
property has been in safe and efficient hands; and she has 
suffered in no way from want of money in the meantime. 
True, he might possibly have been sent to prison through 
its instrumentality; but that is very doubtful, for, in his 
own state, he is probably too big a fish to be caught by 
the frail threads of the law. I hope to see him caught in 
the toils across the Hudson, where he would be a modern 
Antaeus raised from the earth.” 

“It is quite true, as you say, that the property rights of 
the niece may prove to have been in no way prejudiced 
by this delay; but I was thinking of the possible effect 
of it upon the lives and fortunes of others.” 

Fanny understood, and a momentary faintness came 
over her as she realized the probable truth of what he so 
obviously had in mind; but she had no suspicion of the 
sorrow, compassion, self-accusation, and remorse, that 
had been precipitated in the mind of this unkempt but 
stern-looking man. Only one endowed with a poetic 
temperament, and who knew what facts were occupying 
his mind, could have attuned his or her feelings to those 
of Casper Carson at that moment. 

Although healthy and vigorous, and thoroughly im- 
bued with the animal love of life, he had never been in 
accord with what is called “the world” — with prev- 
alent human ideals and resulting usages — and so self- 
146 


Eminent Respectability. 

asserting and inflexible was his own nature, that he had 
not found it possible to adapt himself to social and politi- 
cal conditions, or to profit by them, as the worldly-wise 
do. It cannot be truthfully said that he was a misan- 
thrope, although he probably believed himself to be. He 
was intensely democratic. He believed in the law of 
equal freedom, as formulated by Locke, and in the rights 
of man, as set forth by Thomas Paine. In his fidelity to 
these principles he was uncompromising, and turned in 
disgust from the modern disposition to persist in the 
differentiation of men into rich and poor, powerful and 
weak, exalted and mean, and to make wealth and power 
the basis of recognized consequence. Having a positive- 
ness of mind, he was capable of strong affection, and 
warm, steadfast friendship; but to him, popular ideals 
were hateful, and the un-named god — individual power, 
adored and madly worshiped throughout the world — was 
an ogre; while his mind had been harrowed by seeing his 
own cherished ideals constantly spurned and treated with 
contempt. His instinct and temperament were alto- 
gether at variance with the mad rush for priority that 
everywhere gives direction to human activities, and 
leaves so much ruin and desolation, sorrow and despair, 
unwept and unheeded in its wake. This constitutional 
discord with the world in general was intensified by an 
incident that had caused him, while yet a young man, to 
withdraw, as far as practicable, from the association of 
his fellow men, by converting his property into coupon 
bonds and betaking himself to the life which we have 
found him pursuing. 

This course, until now, he had had no cause to regret. 
He had enjoyed his adopted life— its exemption from 
care and vexation, its freedom from restraint, its simple 

147 


Eminent Respectability. 


joys, and the charm of being always at home, yet wan- 
dering abroad — and he had had no thought of abandon- 
ing it while yet healthy and strong. But now, as he sat 
there in the bosom of his home, contemplating the past 
and the present in the light of this long-delayed letter, 
the thought welled up within him, that possibly a man 
has no right to thus isolate himself from his fellows; that 
there are imposed upon him by Nature responsibilities 
that he cannot evade, and duties that he cannot shirk, 
without becoming answerable for the gravest conse- 
quences. And, the better the man, he felt, the greater 
is his responsibility. For social conditions are the re- 
sultant of contending forces, for good and for evil; and 
he who can by his nature exert an influence for good is 
morally answerable for whatever loss results to the cause 
of social well-being by reasons of his wilful withdrawal 
or withholding of that influence, and for whatever indi- 
vidual wrong is thereby made possible. He had enjoyed 
life, but how selfish he had been in its enjoyment! and 
what had been the probable result of his isolation upon 
the lives and fates of others I Had he kept in close touch 
with the world, and gotten this letter immediately after 
it was written, who knows but that the mother of this 
girl might have been still alive and Flenry Belfield behind 
the prison bars? At any rate, this fine and intelligent 
girl before him — of whose departure from virtuous ways, 
for the want of proper guidance at a critical moment, he 
had learned — might have been safely extricated from the 
dangers with which she had been fatally beset. As he 
now reflected upon his conduct in connection with its 
possible results, he could not escape from the conviction 
that he had been guilty of a disregard of duty, the penalty 
for which would be heavy and inevitable, however much 
148 


Eminent Respectability. 

or little others had in reality been affected by it. For 
such a lapse, he could make no adequate atonement; 
he could only pay the penalty in remorse. 

“May a man not seek his own happiness, then, by 
choosing a life that best accords with his nature?” he 
inquired tremulously of his frowning Sense of Duty. 
“Yes, truly,” came the reply, “but the good man’s road 
to ultimate happiness is not the road — though strewn 
with pleasures it may be — that leads from mutual help- 
fulness — the road that means the abandonment of other 
good men, women, and children, more helpless than he, 
to the besetting evils of the world. Selfishness, as he 
saw, is a murky vapor through which the good man seek- 
ing happiness is led by a will-o’-the-wisp. True, the way 
is often among ooze-bred flowers that delight the senses; 
but it never leads to the high healthful ground of charit- 
able helpfulness, where alone the goal is to be found. 

Fanny’s thoughts were of a less casuistic nature. For 
one brief moment, she thought of what might have been; 
but, such thoughts being unpleasant and unprofitable, 
she turned to the practical matter of getting the will into 
the possession of Phyllis Belfield. 

“May I ask, Mr. Carson,” she said, breaking silence, 
“what course you will pursue with respect to this will?” 

“Certainly. Of course, there is but one thing to do 
with it — get it into the possession of Arthur Belfield’s 
daughter as soon as possible. She resides with her 
uncle, I believe?” 

“No; she now resides in New York.” 

“Ah, indeed!” 

“Yes; she came to New York early in the fall to devote 
herself to music. She is a sweet girl, and— oh, so beau- 
149 


Eminent Respectability. 


tiful! I suppose that you are interested in the Belfield 
chronicles — the daughter is married.” 

“Indeed!” 

“Yes; she married a count — Count Falkenstein.” 

“Well, Fm afraid that the Count’s American alliance 
will not prove very creditable to him ; although, of course, 
she is probably a very estimable girl.” 

“I fancy,” said Fanny, with a little grimace, “that it 
was only through such an alliance that he could get any 
credit.” 

“Possibly,” replied Carson, smiling. “Do you sup- 
pose that the niece knows anything of her uncle’s real 
character?” 

“Yes; she knows it quite well.” 

“Indifferent to it, like most young women similarly 
situated?” 

“Not at all. Quite the contrary.” 

“You have some acquaintance with her then?” 

“I have met her once only.” 

“You know her address?” 

“Yes.” 

“Then I think it best that you take this will directly 
to her.” 

“Indeed, Mr. Carson, I can’t assume the risk even of 
carrying it through the streets.” 

“Why! after having guarded it so long and with such 
signal success?” 

“Well, you know the Hesperides lost the golden apples 
at last.” 

“True.” 

“I propose that I inform Miss Phyllis of its existence, 
and let her come to you for it.” 

“That, perhaps, would be the next best thing; but — let 

150 


Eminent Respectability. 

me see — I don’t want a second visit from Hicks, and 
hence must leave here at once. Moreover, I have de- 
termined to go to the coast side of the state, in further- 
ance of an object settled upon; and I must take ad- 
vantage of every day of good weather, in the hope of 
getting around the Cape before a reaction — ^which is 
certain to come soon, and which may, in fact, come any 
hour.” 

“Mercy! Mr. Carson, do you go to sea alone in a 
boat so large as this?” 

“Oh, no. When I go into rough water, or sail in heavy 
weather, or move any considerable distance, I add to my 
crew. For this trip, I have a man and boy engaged, and 
they will be here to-night.” “Can you see the young lady 
to-morrow?” he asked, reverting to the subject in hand. 

“Yes.” 

“Then I suggest that you have her meet me at New 
Castle, Delaware, on Monday. By taking an early train 
from New York, she can reach there before noon. I 
will wait there until I either see her, or hear from you by 
telegraph.” 

“Very good. We will consider it arranged. And now, 
my business being finished, I will be going.” 

“Not until you have lunched with me. Miss Belfield. 
You surely will not deny me that honor?” 

“Oh! indeed you are very kind, Mr. Carson; but that 
would be needlessly making you work, as I can reach the 
village hotel in good time for dinner; and, besides, I 
would there be close to the station and in little danger of 
being left by the train.” 

“You will make me very little work, I assure you; and 
such as you do, will be done with great pleasure. I can’t 
forego the honor of entertaining you aboard the Robin, 

151 


Eminent Respectability. 

Miss Belfield; but of course I will not equal the hotel 
bill of fare.” 

“Indeed, I have' i'^o apprehension on that score,” said 
Fanny, laughing; “and, to tell the truth, I would really 
enjoy the novelty of lunching with you, as well as the 
pleasure of your society; and I will do so, if you are quite 
sure that I will not put you to much trouble — and if you 
are quite sure that I will not miss my train, which leaves 
this station, I believe, about one-thirty.” 

“I am quite sure as to both of these particulars, and 
you may rest quite easy. With this wind, you will make 
the village in fifteen or twenty minutes — say half an hour 
to the station — and I will have lunch ready in ten min- 
utes.” 

The boatman who had brought Fanny in the skiff now 
came in and assisted Carson with the meal, the prepara- 
tion of which Fanny watched with interest and no little 
amusement, chattering all the while in a way that con- 
trasted strikingly with her previous seriousness. True 
to his promise, Carson (and his assistant) had the meal 
ready within ten minutes, and Fanny declared that she 
had never enjoyed one so much. For the first time in 
her life, she ate flap-jacks, served with molasses; and she 
meant no gracious flattery when she called them de- 
licious. 

“Miss Belfield,” said Carson, when the meal was over, 
“you would doubtless like to read your mother’s letter?” 

“Yes; indeed I would, Mr. Carson — that is, if it is not 
of a private nature.” 

“It is not. I will give you a copy to take with you, as 
I wish to keep the original.” 

Hastily clearing the table, Carson brought out writing 
materials and proceeded to make the copy. “Do you 

152 


Eminent Respectability. 

know that I was once married?” he asked, as he folded 
the copy. 

“Yes,” replied Fanny, in a low voice. 

“Do you know to whom?” 

“Yes; mother told me.” 

He handed her the folded copy without further re- 
mark; and, a few minutes later, he and Leonidas saw her 
borne rapidly away in the graceful skiff, which seemed to 
bow its adieus as it swayed in the embrace of the brisk 
west wind. Carson, trembling with emotion, watched 
her intently until the skiff disappeared around a bend in 
the stream, when the tears that he was now no longer 
obliged to restrain trickled down his hard and weather- 
browned cheeks. 


153 


CHAPTER XV. 


*‘I do not love thee, Doctor Fell, 

The reason why I cannot tell; 

But this alone I know full well, 

I do not love thee, Doctor Fell.” — Tom Brown. 

“Seek and ye shall find,^^ is a declaration of high au- 
thority, and one, doubtless, that was meant to apply to 
those who should seek with unfaltering faith and per- 
sistency, as Alex Webster did. It was early in January 
when he at last picked up the lost trail. Some one of the 
many of whom he had inquired, after denying any knowl- 
edge of her whose life he sought to unveil, bethought 
herself, and questioned Florence, her colored servant. 
Florence advised him to see Annie Bird, a colored 
woman who had formerly been Alice FishePs servant, 
and who now lived, she believed, with a family of the 
name of Carter, on Lexington Avenue. At the home of 
the Carters, he learned that Annie Bird had gone to live 
with a family of the name of Tracy, who lived near Tarry- 
town. From Tarrytown, he traced her to Newburg, and 
from Newburg to a suburb of Poughkeepsie, where he 
had the intense satisfaction of finally coming up with her. 

“Oh, yes suh,” she said, in reply to his in^^uiry, “I lived 
with Alice Fisher two yeahs. A very fine ladjr she was, 
suh — an elegant lady. Oh, yes suh; I knowed her well. 
She lived with Mr. — 


154 


Eminent Respectability. 

“Never mind whom she lived with,” said Alex. “Can 
you describe her?” 

“Oh, yes suh; easy. She whar dawk, suh. That is — 
not so dawk as some — not right dawk, yo’ know; but 
pretty dawk, suh. Yes suh. She had dawk eyes, too, 
suh. Lovely eyes — dawk brown, yo’ know. Lovely as 
yo’ ever see — ” 

“Tall, or short?” 

“Pretty tall, suh. Not real tall; but not shoat, like me. 
An^ she whar that elegant built ! — had such a nice fawm, 
yo’ know, that everybody admired her. Yes suh. An^ 
her daughter looks jes’ like her, suh, ^cept her nose, 
which Miss Alice used to say whar more like her fathePs 
— that is, the guPs father, suh. Yes suh.” 

“Ah! then she had a daughter?” 

“Oh, yes suh. Very — ” 

“How old is she?” 

“Oh, she’s a grown-up woman now, suh. I s’pose she’s 
twenty-two or twenty-three.” 

This was information for which Alex was quite un- 
prepared, and his face betrayed that mental anguish that 
is called a sinking of the heart. 

“Oh, yes suh,” the woman continued. “Very fine girl 
she whar, too, suh. Smart as lightning; an’ her mother 
sent her to school an’ made a fine, young lady of her. 
Don’t yo’ know her? Don’t yo’ know Miss Alice’s 
daughter? Helen whar her name, suh; but’dey calls her 
Fanny, now — Fanny Allen. Don’t yo’ know Fanny 
Allen, suh? No? Why! I thought everybody know’d 
her—” 

“Can you give me her address?” 

“Well — no suh, I can’t jes’ now, suh; but Mistah Wells, 
who is at No. — Broadway, can tell yo’, suh. He knows 

155 


Eminent Respectability. 


her; an^ he knowd her mother, too, svih. An^ so does 
Mistah Lawd, at No. — Fifth Avenue, know her, stih. 
An’, oh — there’s lots o’ people knows Fanny Allen, suh.” 

Alex hurriedly wrote these names in his note-book. 
At last his efforts were to be rewarded. He had the 
trail. But what must have been his thoughts upon find- 
ing it to be a double, or forked, one ! “Ah,” he said, in- 

wardly, “then I have a sister! I wonder what more sur- 
prises are in store for me, and where the end of this 
maze is to be found.” “Did you ever hear her say any- 
thing about her marriage?” he asked, breaking off his 
garrulous informant’s effusion. 

“Oh, yes suh; she talked to me right much about it, 
suh. She used to tell me ’bout everything, suh. That 
whar a mighty bad man she married, suh — a mighty bad 
man. He coaxed her off an’ married her when she whar 
only a gul, suh — only seventeen. Jes ’to think! An’ 
then burnt the ’tificate an’ said he never married her. 
Wharen’t it too bad? An’ she in family trouble, too, 
suh. ’Twhar scand’lous; that’s what it whar — ’twhar 
scand’lous. Yes, suh.” 

“Do you know his name?” 

“Yes, suh. Let me think — ah — his name whar — Bel 
— Bel — Bel something, suh — Held; that whar it — Bel- 
field.” 

Alex started as if he had received an unexpected elec- 
tric shock. For a moment he suspected that he was 
dreaming. “Can it be possible,” he asked himself, “that 
such a mystery surrounds my life? I, who have been 
reared in the simplicity of a plain countryman, with no 
surrounding circumstances from which the slightest hint 
of all this could be taken. In the name of all that’s won- 
derful, what can the sum of it all be?” 


Eminent Respectability. 

'‘Do you know his first name?’^ he asked, when he had 
sufficiently recovered from his surprise. 

“Yes, suh, I do — if I can think of it. It whar — ah — ” 

“Was it Henry?” 

“That's it, suh — Henry. That’s ’zactly it.” 

“Where does he live?” 

“Over in Jersey, suh. At least, that’s whar he did 
live; an’ I spose he lives there yet, suh. He’s a big man 
over there, suh. Big politician, an’ very rich — a million- 
aire, suh. But he’s a bad man, suh — a bad man; an’ 
ought never to a been ’lowed to be rich.” 

So completely was Alex engaged with the tumultuous 
thoughts that this information precipitated, that for some 
time he was quite oblivious to what the woman was say- 
ing. Again cutting her off, he asked: “Did you ever hear 
her say when and where she was married?” 

“Yes suh, I did; but I’se fo’got. ’Twhar somewhar in 
Jersey, though. Course she didn’t know the preacher’s 
name, nor whar he lived; that’s why she couldn’t prove 
that she whar married, suh.” 

Alex was now impatient to see his new sister. Many 
were the questions that he put to himself, but none of 
them could the questioned answer. “Why have I not 
been told the name of my father? Why have I not been 
told of the existence of this sister? In short, why have 
I been kept in ignorance of everything in connection 
with this matter of my identity? Why are the folks at 
home, even now, so averse to speaking of it?” At every 
step the mystery deepened. “Probably,” he said to him- 
self, “this Fanny Allen — this new sister — can explain it 
all. If not, or in case I fail to find her, I will go at once 
to my father and demand a full revelation; and at once.” 

Handing the colored woman a coin, he thanked her, 

157 


Eminent Respectability. 


and hastened away to enter immediately upon this new 
search. In this, he encountered no difficulties. As 
Annie Bird had said, “lots o’ people” knew Fanny Allen; 
and he located her the very next day, which was Satur- 
day. He called at her home during the afternoon, and 
was told that she was out of town, but would probably 
be at home in the evening. Calling again at eight, he 
was rewarded by finding her in; she having returned 
within half an hour from her visit to Casper Carson. But 
now, upon realizing that he was about to meet this girl 
— this sister — this likeness of his mother — right there 
and then, he was almost frightened. He felt that, not- 
withstanding his eager search, he had hardly expected 
this issue, and was not prepared to meet it. What should 
he say to her? How should he introduce himself and 
his subject? Or, after all, might she not decline to see 
him? He had sent her his card. She might suspect 
who he was, and have some reason for wishing to con- 
tinue her non-intercourse with her family. So great was 
his agitation and suspense as he sat in the parlor wait- 
ing that his heart seemed to increase to the size of a 
pumpkin. At length he heard a rustling of silk on the 
stairway and, as if by reflex action, his heart seemed to 
throb audibly beneath his coat. A moment later a 
graceful young woman of the brunette type stood before 
him. Alex noted at the first glance that Tier face was 
strong and expressive; but he thought it careworn and 
sad, despite the pleasant smile with which she greeted 
him. 

“Miss Allen, I believe?” he said, rising as she entered. 

“Yes.” 

“As I presume you have learned from my card, my 
name is Webster.” 


Eminent Respectability. 

“Yes; pray be seated, Mr. Webster,'' said Fanny, seat- 
ing herself near him. 

“Miss Allen, my call is in relation to a matter of seri- 
ous import to me, and possibly to you also. Do you 
suspect who I am, beyond the mere matter of my name?" 

“I confess that I had a suspicion concerning my visitor 
before I entered the room; but, upon seeing him, it 
vanished." 

“You know of Joel Webster, a farmer at B — ?" 

“My grandfather,?" said Fanny, dropping her glance 
toward the floor, and with a look of ineffable sadness 
upon her face. 

“It is true, then, as I have been informed, that you are 
the daughter of her who was Elizabeth Webster?" 

“Yes, that is true." 

“Then, my dear girl, I am your unworthy brother." 

Fanny looked up in amazement. She saw by his hon- 
est, manly face, and the tears in his kindly eyes, that he 
meant and believed what he said. For a moment she 
contemplated him in silence. Then, with a slow negative 
motion of her head, she said: “No, Mr. Webster, you are 
not my brother. It cannot be. I was my mother's only 
child." 

“In this, my dear girl, you are mistaken. You must 
be mistaken." 

“And I am sure that I am not." 

“Well," said Alex, a little annoyed at this contradic- 
tion, “I am the reputed son of Elizabeth Webster, who 
was the daughter of Joel and Elizabeth Webster, by 
whom I have been reared as their own child. Until two 
months ago, I supposed that they were my parents. A 
rumor having been started by political enemies to the 
effect that they were not, I questioned my father and 

159 


Eminent Respectability. 

learned that I was the son of his daughter, who had met 
with some early misfortune, the nature of which he did 
not tell ine, beyond the fact of giving me to understand 
that her conduct was not unlawful. I did not press either 
him or mother for more definite information, because I 
was loath to allude to a subject that so manifestly dis- 
tressed them. It was from Annie Bird, your mother’s 
former servant, that I learned of your existence, and the 
name of the man who wrecked my mother’s life.” 

While he spoke, Fanny regarded him with a look of 
perplexity. .“I confess that I cannot make it out,” she 
said, after a brief silence; “but I am certain that you are 
laboring under some curious mistake. My mother mar- 
ried Henry Belfield when she was but seventeen years of 
age. A few months later, he destroyed the marriage 
certificate, denied the marriage, and flung her aside to 
be looked upon by the world as disgraced. In due time 
I was born, and I lived with my mother until her death, 
which happened six years ago, and which I have always 
believed she met at the hands of her lawful husband. I 
am quite sure that she had no other child.” 

“Well,” said Alex, “it is useless for us to debate this 
until I am more fully enlightened by those who know the 
facts beyond possibility of mistake. When I next go to 
B — , I shall insist upon knowing them. In the mean- 
time, permit me to regard you as a sister, subject to 
being subsequently corrected. I have been told that you 
resemble your mother, and I am glad to know it; al- 
though I do not wish to be considered a flatterer.” 

“Thank you,” said Fanny. “I likewise do not wish to 
be taken for a flatterer, when I say uite cer- 

tain that I could be very proud of you as a brother. Yet, 
I say frankly, and with the hope of giving no offense, 
l6o 


Eminent Respectability. 

that I should be sorry to learn that you are indeed my 
brother, as I would be no credit to you as a sister.” 

This observation took Alex quite by surprise, and for 
a time he was too much embarrassed and pained to 
speak. When he did, he asked Fanny about her mothers 
marriage, and learned that it had taken place in Camden, 
December 24, 18 — . The clergyman who performed the 
ceremony was then a young man of medium size and 
average build, and had dark hair, blue eyes, and a nose 
that her mother used to say was shaped like the diamond 
of a playing card. 

Having noted these and all cognate facts that Fanny 
could supply, Alex put away his note-book and said: “It 
is my purpose to find this clergyman if beds still alive, 
and to establish the fact and legality of this marriage. 
Though widely separated from Henry Belfield in social 
consequence, which has prevented intimacy between us, 
I have been reared within sight of his house, and during 
my whole life his person has been a familiar object to my 
eyes. I have never liked him. My aversion has not 
been justified by particular acts within my knowledge; 
but I have always regarded him with the antipathy that 
arises from constitutional antagonisms. I have never 
before spoken of it, because dislikes arising from mere 
incongruity of temperament cannot be safely spoken of 
among people who are not strung finely enough to have 
such instincts. I would have been misunderstood and 
misjudged. It would have been particularly dangerous 
to express a dislike for so great and powerful a man as 
Henry Belfield^ It would have been like an insult to 
Baal amoi^. 'dpers. People would have said 

that I wtis simply envious — that I was imbued with a 
whining pessimism, and actuated by jealousy — all of 

161 


Eminent Respectability. 


which would be cured by a little worldly success. But, 
while I could not have proved it, and did not found my 
knowledge upon any particular act, I nevertheless knew 
him to be a bad man — the kind of a man that would be a 
buccaneer, the proprietor of a thieves’ den, a railroad 
projector, or a politician, according to his best chances 
of success under the conditions encountered. Recently- 
acquired information concerning him has given me some 
great surprises, but the fact of his turpitude is not one of 
them. The situation, however, is now different. I 
can call him a scoundrel to his face and in any company. 
Moreover, I now have a personal reason for doing my 
utmost to expose him to the world in his true character; 
and, although he may be my father, as I believe him to 
be, I shall not be deterred in the least by filial affection.” 

“And filial affection will hot deter me from bringing 
him to the gallows,” said Fanny. “I have had detectives 
shadowing him for some time, and they, like myself, are 
fully convinced of his guilt. Prove this marriage, Mr. 
Webster, and you will advance the work on his gallows 
considerably.” 

“This I shall do, if it belongs to the possible; and I am 
confident that it does,” said Alex, arising to go. 

“Please excuse me a moment, Mr. Webster; there’s 
something I almost forgot,” said Fanny, who left the 
room, and returned a few minutes later with a cabinet 
photograph in her hand. “Here,” she said, “is my 
mother’s picture. It may be useful to you in case you 
find the clergyman. At any rate, being in the family, 
you will probably appreciate it.” 

Alex did appreciate it, of course ; and said so in appro- 
priate words. Long and intently he contemplated the 
face, which strongly resembled that of the girl before 
162 


Eminent Respectability. 

him, and also that of Emily. It was a strong face, and 
a kindly one, but it had a suggestion of the romantic 
about it that, as Alex thought, explained her imprudence. 
Whatever her faults, however, he felt that she had been 
a lovable woman, and one worthy of any sacrifice in vin- 
dication of her honor. 

“Permit me,” said Alex, when at last about to depart, 
“to call you Helen, and sister; for, however closely or 
distantly we may be related by blood, we are sister and 
brother in this common cause — in our efforts to vindi- 
cate the honor of the beloved dead. Am I right?” 

“Yes, my brother, you are right,” replied Fanny, press- 
ing his hand, and raising her eyes admiringly to his. 

Before departing, Alex promised to make frequent 
reports of the progress made, and exacted a promise 
from Fanny to call upon him in every hour of a sister’s 
need. 


CHAPTER XVL 


“There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, 

Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.” — Hamlet. 

The next day, pursuant to an appointment made 
through the instrumentality of the city’s messenger ser- 
vice, Fanny called upon Phyllis to apprise her of what 
had come to light and the arrangement made for her to 
meet Casper Carson at New Castle. 

We may assume, of course, that Phyllis was astonished 
by these disclosures. In the nature of things, it could 
not be otherwise. But surprises, like aperient doses, 
have an ever diminishing effect when frequently admin- 
istered; and it is safe to assume that the shock produced 
by this information was very mild in comparison with the 
one given her by what she overheard in her uncle’s 
library nearly eight months before. In fact, she was now 
past being amazed at evidences of iniquity on the part ot 
her uncle; they were merely cumulative, and rather to be 
expected. The only surprising thing that she saw in 
this revelation was the almost miraculous history of this 
will, which seemed to her like a tale from the Arabian 
Nights. She was not avaricious, nor covetous. She 
had, indeed, a very feeble conception as to the de- 
sirability of wealth, beyond her physical needs. She 
had inherited the generous nature of the artist, rather 

164 


Eminent Respectability. 

than the greed and thrift of the financier. In this, she 
was the very antithesis of her cousin Virginia, who had 
inherited her fatheris ambitious nature and appetence 
for all worldly advantage. Hence, she now felt no stimu- 
lation of the pulse upon being informed of a probable 
addition to her fortune. She already had money enough; 
what use would more be? Had she believed her uncle 
guilty of no fraud, she probably would not have availed 
herself of this discovery; knowing that, now that he had 
a luxurious count to provide for, his needs would be 
largely increased. 

Nevertheless, she was semi-conscious of Fanny’s in- 
formation being peculiarly agreeable to her. Her pleas- 
ure was not that which comes from the contemplation of 
probable gain, or the satisfaction of an active desire, but 
that tranquil and innocent pleasure, or gratification, 
which comes from the consciousness of figuring in a 
curious and more or less romantic incident. It was that 
kind of pleasure that any girl of eighteen, with anything 
of the romantic in her make-up, would have felt under 
similar circumstances; but which she would probably 
have conceived to be a mental defect to be carefully hid- 
den from the rest of the world. 

Of course she would go to New Castle the next day — 
she would take the earliest train — she contemplated the 
trip with pleasure. It would be such an enjoyable diver- 
sion; and she would be delighted to see the odd man of 
the Robin — this modern Diogenes, living in his tub. “By 
the way,” she said to Fanny, “this Mr. Carson must have 
been an acquaintance of your mother’s?” 

“Yes,” replied Fanny, “there was a slight intimacy be- 
tween them; arising, I believe, from a kind of fellowship 
in their grievances. And that reminds me,” she addedj 


Eminent Respectability. 

'‘I presume that you know of your aunt’s earlier mar- 
riage?” 

“What! not my Aunt Theresa Belfield?” 

“Yes.” 

“Why, how you talk! You don’t mean — no, really, 
you can’t mean it — or, if you do, you must be mistaken.” 

“Not at all. I am surprised at their success in keep- 
ing it so close a secret. I got the story from my mother, 
who was certainly in a position to know whereof she 
spoke. Your aunt and Casper Carson formed an attach- 
ment for each other while he was at college and she at- 
tending a neighboring boarding school. He subse- 
quently courted her, and, although the match was dis- 
approved of by her relatives, they were married. The 
marriage proved a failure. For some reason, Mrs. Car- 
son soon showed a stronger liking for Henry Belfield 
than for her husband; and, as usual, the husband was 
not long in finding it out. Instead of quarreling with her, 
however, he told her that, as the man whom she pre- 
ferred was unmarried — which he supposed to be the case 
— there was no unsurmountable obstacle to her marry- 
ing him. He said that he would not stand between her 
and happiness — that she might consider herself released 
from her pledge to him, and begin proceedings for 
divorce on the ground of desertion. She accordingly 
returned to her father’s house; commenced legal pro- 
ceedings, which were not defended; obtained a decree of 
divorce; and then — the sequel, of course — marriage to 
Henry Belfield.” 

“Well,” said Phyllis, after a brief silence, “another sur- 
prise, or, rather, more information. For I am almost 
beyond being surprised. What a world! What a maze 
of things! of deceits and delusions! Are there no good 
i66 


Eminent Respectability. 

people? Can it be that there is nothing pure and lovable, 
except, perhaps, that which appears to be mean? I am 
beginning to fear that there is nothing real, except my 
consciousness, and that my life is a dream of which 
sleeping and waking are but different phases.” 

“I have felt that way, too, at times; but, at other times, 
I have been convinced that the world is made up of in- 
dubitable and very disagreeable realities,” said Fanny, 
who, her errand being done, did not tarry longer to 
assist Phyllis in her speculations. 

Nor will we tarry to record the thoughts that entered 
her mind during the remainder of that Sabbath day. 
Suffice it to say, that this new discovery considerably 
amplified the field of her vision, and she spent much of 
the remaining part of the day in making fresh observa- 
tions and corrections in the data of her survey. 

Before eight o^clock the next morning she was being 
whirled along on her journey at the rate of fifty miles 
an hour. Trenton, Philadelphia, Chester, Wilmington — 
each in turn — were left behind; and, while the sun was 
yet an hour short of the meridian, her train drew into 
the quaint little town on the western bank of the lower 
Delaware. As she stepped from the train, Casper Car- 
son, whom she recognized from Fanny’s description, ad- 
vanced to meet her. In a few minutes they were aboard 
the Robin, which lay at a wharf not far away, and the 
will of Alfred Belfield, her father’s uncle, was placed in 
her hands. 

Like Fanny, Phyllis was pleased with the Robin, and 
delighted with Leonidas, for whom she expressed a will- 
ingness to pay a handsome sum on the spot; and, conver- 
sation between herself and Carson proving easy, they 
were soon chattering together like old friends. She 

167 


Eminent Respectability. 


marveled at the culture and refinement of this unkempt 
Diogenes, whose grace of manner was not of the con- 
ventional, pattern-cut sort, but apparently as much his 
own as his skin and voice. She soon came to think that 
his very shagginess made him picturesque and delightful. 
He said nothing to her of her uncle, and, beyond advis- 
ing her to put the will into safe and competent profes- 
sional hands, made no reference to her affairs or family, 
or to the circumstances that had brought them together. 

But Phyllis was not so reticent. She had formulated 
some questions, more or less impertinent in form, that 
she wished to propound to him; and, taking advantage 
of a favorable period in their conversation, she began 
with them as delicately as she knew how to. “Mr. Car- 
son,” she said, “do you know Mr. Joel Webster, of B. — ?” 

“No; but I know of him,” was the reply. 

“You know nothing of his family?” 

“No, I may say; nothing to speak of. Of course, I 
had a slight acquaintance with his daughter, through 
whom we got the will.” 

“Mr. Carson, I want to ask you some impertinent 
questions; may I?” 

“Certainly, Miss Belfield. Take whatever liberties 
you like,” said Carson, smiling. 

“Is it true that you were once married?” 

“Yes.” 

“Did you have any children?” 

“No.” 

“Don’t you think that unfortunate?” 

“Well, Miss Belfield, really, that’s a hard question. I 
am by no means certain that life is, on the whole, a bless- 
ing. To a very large number, it certainly is not so. 
Much depends upon the idiosyncrasies of the individual, 
i68 


Eminent Respectability. 

much upon health, and much upon environment and for- 
tune. It is so much an open question — at least, so much 
is contingent — that parents assume a much greater re- 
sponsibility than they usually realize.” 

“Very true. But parents find a great satisfaction in 
the fact of their children— if they do well— don’t you 
think?” 

“Undoubtedly. A selfish satisfaction that is part of 
Nature’s design and does not take into consideration the 
probability of happiness for their children.” 

“Just so. And if you had had a son, you would have 
experienced that satisfaction like other parents; think 
you not?” 

“I have no reason to doubt it.” 

“Is it true that you were divorced, Mr. Carson?” 

“Yes.” 

“And that your wife subsequently married my Uncle 
Henry?” 

“Yes; that is true.” 

“Have you seen her since?” 

“No.” 

“Nor heard from her, directly or indirectly?” 

“No; nothing more than a report that she has been 
living an apparently happy and contented life, which I 
trust is true.” 

“Are you sure that she was not a mother before my 
uncle married her?” 

“Why — I have no reason to suspect. Why do you 
ask?” said Carson, with a sudden eagerness of manner. 

“I asked,” said Phyllis, calmly, “because there is a 
young man in the world concerning whose parentage, 
as I have accidentally learned, there is a closely-kept 
secret. I am somewhat interested in him, and certain 
169 


Eminent Respectability. 

facts seemed to indicate that possibly you could give me 
some light.’^ 

“No, no, it can’t be,” said Carson, staring vacantly at 
the floor of the cabin. 

“I understand, Mr. Carson, that you are going to the 
Jersey coast?” 

“Yes.” 

“May I ask where?” 

“To the waters of Barnegat Bay.” 

“Could you not go on to B — without much trouble?” 

“Why, yes,” said Carson, looking up inquiringly. 

“Then I recommend that you go to B — , and ask Joel 
Webster who was the mother of his adopted son. Under- 
stand, Mr. Carson, I haven’t definite knowledge. I have 
only a suspicion that has arisen from facts that I have 
recently and accidentally learned. You can easily learn 
the truth — as Mr. Webster would not tell you a false- 
hood — and I think it worth your while to do so. 

“Of course, whatever the issue, you will not mention 
the fact of my having advised you.” 

“Certainly not. Miss Belfield. What you surmise does 
not seem to me at all probable. Yet, who knows? How- 
ever it may be, I shall carry out your suggestion; and, if, 
by favor of Fate, the fact proves to be as you suspect, my 
faith — if not in angels, yet in the angelic — ^will receive a 
new inspiration. Let me thank you in a poor, inade- 
quate way for your disinterested kindness in trying to 
procure for me — a childless wanderer, and stranger to 
almost all my race — the inestimable blessing of a son. In 
the event of your efforts being crowned with success — ■ 
well, I suppose that I will then be unreasonable enough 
to hope that you will find me a daughter also.” 

“Well,” said Phyllis, laughing, “let us hope that I — or, 
1^/0 


Eminent Respectability. 

rather, that we — may succeed with respect to the son; 
in which event, he will doubtless take care of the matter 
of a daughter.” ‘'And now, Mr. Carson, I must be go- 
ing,” she added, rising and extending her hand. “Let me 
say bon voyage, and success to you. I am sorry that you 
won’t consent to my taking Leonidas with me; but I sup- 
pose he can be more useful on the Robin than he could 
be in New York.” “Would you like to go with me, Leon, 
dear?” she said, patting the dog on the head, and smiling 
upon him with siren witchery. But Leonidas was not 
human, and replied with an altogether non-committal 
look. 

“Will you not lunch with me — either on the Robin, or 
at the hotel?” 

“Not this time, thank you; although I assure you that 
nothing would please me more. I find that I can make 
Wilmington by lunch time, and thereby get an early train 
for New York. So please excuse me, and be assured 
that I appreciate this great service that you have done 
for me. Here is my address. When you are in New 
York, come to see me; when you are near there, advise 
me, and I will come to see you. Again, bon voyageJ^ 

“But I will accompany you to the station,” said Car- 
son, for which Phyllis thanked him. 

Half an hour later, Phyllis was on her way back to 
New York with a fortune in her hand, and the Robin, 
urged along by the strong northerly wind, was racing the 
billows in her flight toward the Cape. On flew the grace- 
ful sloop, swiftly and eagerly, as if alive to the anxiety of 
her master under the inspiration of a new-born hope. 
On, on she flew, rocking and bounding and plunging, 
apparently bent upon proving her fidelity, while the 
water, white with rage at being thus rudely molested, 
171 


Eminent Respectability. 


leaped hissing and gurgling about her brow and sides. 
On past the frowning old fort — out into the broadening 
bay, where the billows rose higher and higher, she swept, 
reeling oflf mile after mile with a rapidity that seemed to 
portend a speedy relief from the burden of suspense that 
bore upon her master’s mind. 

But the wind gods are turbulent and contentious, as 
well as fickle and vacillating; and much patience is re~ 
quired of the mariner dependent upon their favors. 
Swiftly as the Robin flew, she had covered no more than 
half the distance from New Castle to the Cape when 
Boreas encountered his implacable old enemy, Notus; 
and, both challenging, and each defying the other, the 
twain were soon so interlocked in their fierce encounter 
that Eurus easily pushed them both far from the scene 
with a force and purpose that put a temporary embargo 
upon all small craft in that locality. In other words, the 
wind fell, and, after a period of vacillation, came up so 
strong from the southeast that the skipper of the Robin 
was forced to take shelter. For some time past the wind 
had been westerly, producing, as Carson well knew, a 
comparatively smooth sea along the coast, and, hence, 
favorable to his purpose. He had hoped to round the 
Cape and reach the shelter of the sounds before a change ; 
but, in this, as he now saw, he was doomed to disap- 
pointment. He was caught; and most provokingly, for, 
had the wind held off shore but another day, he would 
have been safe behind the sand breakwaters of the coast, 
where lay his destination. But there was no help for it. 
He must wait until the buffetings of Zephyrus should 
repress the truculent aggressiveness of Neptune, and 
render it again safe to enter upon his domain. 

172 


CHAPTER XVI L 


“I doubt some danger does approach you nearly; 

If you will take a homely man’s advice, 

Be not found here; hence, with your little ones.” 

— Shakespebe, Macbeth. 

On a bright mild day nearly a month after the Robin 
became weather-bound in the Delaware Bay, two men 
in a scow were engaged in gathering clams from the 
waters of Barnegat. For some weeks past, their work 
had been suspended by the hard winter weather that had 
prevailed, and the consequent closing up of the waters 
by ice. Now, the god of the south wind, Notus, was 
again holding sway on these parts; the ice had been 
broken up, and pretty much all of it either melted or 
swept to sea; and the increased power of the solar rays 
seemed to indicate that, as these clammers expressed it, 
the “back bone of the winter was broken.^^ 

Spurred on by the necessity of making up for loss of 
time, and stimulated by the high prices then being 
offered for their products because of temporary scarcity, 
they had quickly worked off their coats, and were fast 
working off the superfluous adipose tissue that had ac- 
cumulated during their long rest. But, at this kind of 
labor, men seldom work too fast to talk, and these men 
were not exceptions to the rule. “I hear that Coley’s 
drunk aginV’ said one. , .Jj 


173 


Eminent Respectability. 


“So I hear,” replied the other. “It ’pears like a queer 
way to win pleasure or lose trouble — spendin’ money fer 
rum.” 

“There’s somethin’ strange about that feller. He used 
to be as sober as any man. But it looks now as if he had 
gone to the dogs fer keeps.” 

“Well, he alius was triflin’ like.” 

“Yah-as; ye cud put no dependence in ’eem; but still, 
he was sober, an’ a purty decent kind of a feller. It’s too 
bad fer ’ees family, I mus’ say.” 

“It gits me how he kin stand it. I can’t; an’ I know I 
earn more money then he does, by a dang sight. I un- 
derstand, howsomever, that he don’t go in debt; an’ I 
guess they ain’t been in want.” 

“Yah-as, I know ’ee pays ’ees way. Somebody told me 
that he fell heir to some money, som’how; but I never 
know’d he had any relations with money. All of ’em that 
I ever heard of was about like him. An’ I know that 
none of ’ees wife’s folks had any.” 

“Well, he mus’ git some somers, fer he got a ten-dollar 
bill changed at the store tother night ; an’ I know he ain’t 
earned a cent fer a month er more. It’s certainly curious 
what a knack some people have fer gittin’ along.” 

“My old woman tells me that his wife says ’ees had 
some nervous complaint fer some years past, an’ it’s 
gittin’ wus’ all the time. She says ’ee can’t half sleep; 
an’ that ’ee has all sorts o’ dreams, an’ wakes up in the 
night hollerin’.” 

“I heard somethin’ o’ that, too. I gi! that mus’ be 
purty bad. Maybe ’ee’s gittin’ the treemins.” 

“Well, I guess either drinkin’ makes ’eem dream, er 
dreamin’ makes ’eem drink — one er t’other. Hello! who’s 
this a cornin’?” continued the last- speaker, looking at a 

174 


Eminent Respectability. 

sloop coming up the bay, about a quarter of a mile dis- 
tant. 

“I dunno,” replied the other. “IVe been lookin’ at her, 
but can’t make ’er out. I don’t think she b’longs in these 
parts,” he added, as the sloop drew nearer. 

“Purty trim lookin’ craft. Somebody’s yacht, I guess.” 

Urged along by a moderate breeze, the sloop in ques- 
tion rapidly approached; and, to the surprise of the 
clammers, after passing them she suddenly swept around, 
and, running back into the wind, came to anchor within 
easy speaking distance of them. They then saw that it 
was the Robin, and that she carried a bull-terrier, either 
as a passenger, or as one of her crew. The skipper, of 
course, was Casper Carson; who, after a detention of 
nearly a month, had at last reached his immediate des- 
tination in safety. 

“Do you men live in these parts?” he said, calling out 
to the clammers. 

“Yah-as,” was the reply. 

“Does either of you know a man named John Cole?” 

“Guess both of us does.” 

“Does he live near by?” 

“’Tain’t fur. Right over yander in the town. Any- 
body there kin’ tell ye where ’ee lives.” 

“Have you men a few clams to spare?” 

“Well, yah-as, we kin spare ye some. How many d’ye 
want ?” 

“I would like a hundred medium-sized ones, if you have 
them.” 

The scow was pushed alongside the Robin, and the 
clams counted out and paid for. 

“Will you men have a nip of something strong?” asked 
Carson. 

“Well, I guess we don’t mind. At least I don’t,” said 

175 


Eminent Respectability. 


one. The other said that he was “agreeable,” where- 
upon Carson brought from the cabin a bottle of whisky 
and a glass, which he passed down to them. “Is Cole a 
pretty decent kind of a fellow?” he asked, as he took back 
the liquor. 

“Well, yah-as; purty decent,” replied one of the men, 
after a brief pause, during which each had apparently 
waited for the other to speak. “Pays ’ees bills, and 
minds ’ees own business. That’s about all ye kin well 
ask of a man, I s’pose.” 

“Still follows the water, eh?” 

“Yah-as, when ’ee does anything.” 

“Industrious?” 

“Well, I guess ’ee’s like the rest of us, an’ don’t like 
work any too much — on its own account,” replied the 
man, with a significant smile. 

“Sober?” 

Before replying to this, the man exchanged a wink 
with his partner, which fact did not escape Carson’s 
notice. 

“Wouldn’t like to vouch fer ’eem to-day, Cap’n,” he 
said, with an’ expression of amusement. 

“Does he boose much?” 

“Well, ye see, Cap’n, he has some nervous complaint. 
He has bad dreams, they say, an’ can’t sleep well. That, 
I s’pose accounts fer ’eem hittin’ it up purty lively once 
in a while. But ’ee ain’t a bad feller. Ye kin find ’eem 
up in the town, all right ; but, ef I was you, I wouldn’t go 
see ’eem to-day.” 

“I believe it was while out fishing with him that a man 
named Arthur Belfield was drowned a few years ago; 
was it not?” 

“Yah-as, he’s the man, Cap’n.” 

17b 


Eminent Respectability. 

“Was he at that time a competent boatman 

“Oh, yah-as; he was brought up in a boat, ye might 
say.^’ 

Carson thanked the men for their information, where- 
upon they returned to their work. 

Later in the day, the Robin proceeded further up the 
channel and dropped anchor near the village. Here she 
remained three days, during which time Carson learned 
that the man Cole, of whom he had inquired, had never 
been looked upon as being of very much account, and 
had, within the last few years, become much addicted to 
drink. He was one of those characters, one or more of 
which may be found in nearly every village, whose lives 
are mysteries to those of their neighbors who find it 
necessary to work hard and persistently to keep the wolf 
from the door. He was believed to be very poor; but it 
was not known that his wife and four children had ever 
been in absolute want. When sober, he was polite and 
peaceable; when drunk, sullen and reticent. On the 
whole, he was something of a recluse. Carson was un- 
able to find him, either at home, or about the village, and 
was finally told by his wife that he was away — had gone 
to New York, she thought — and might not return for 
several days. The fact was that the man had been in- 
formed through the clammers of Carson’s inquiries, and, 
after taking a furtive survey of the strange inquisitor, 
had suddenly left home, as his wife had said. Carson 
came to suspect that he was being “dodged;” but he had 
learned enough, through his inquiries and the gossip of 
the neighborhood, for immediate purposes; and, on the 
morning of the fourth day after his arrival, he lifted 
anchor and the Robin passed down the bay and out to 
§ea, where she laid her course toward Sandy Hook. 


177 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

“What manner of man is this?” — N ew Testament. 

During the afternoon of the second day after Carson’s 
appearance in Barnegat Bay, Belfield, Hicks and Junkin 
held an interview in the latter’s office. At this interview, 
the failures of the past were discussed, rather than the 
prospects of the future; and, disagreeable as the former 
were, they were perhaps less so than the latter. The 
interviewers not being angels, nor men of angelic tem- 
peraments, and not being, at present, in anything like 
angelic moods, the discussion was of a peculiarly earthy 
character. Of late, things had not been to Belfield’s 
liking. Either his strength was waning, or the world 
was getting heavier; as his grip upon its tail seemed to 
relax, and it could no longer be lifted and swung with 
the ease of former days. True, his business affairs were 
never so prosperous, but he seemed to be losing his con- 
trol over the course of events. Once, when a fact that 
he \\ished to see distinctly was enshrouded in darkness, 
he had but to say, “Let there be light,” and there would 
be light ; but the magic of his will had now become feeble 
and uncertain. His niece had slipped from his control, 
and was liable, he thought, under the guidance of others, 
to make him serious trouble; while clouds of a much 
more minatory aspect, and which his magical powers 
would neither sweep back nor dissipate, were growing 

178 


Eminent Respectability. 

larger and darker upon his horizon. Hence, he was now 
in an ugly mood, and his temper was naturally communi- 
cated in some degree to the others. Not only had Hicks 
failed in his designs upon Fanny Allen, but his visit to 
Southwestern Jersey to see Casper Carson had been 
profitless. The report of that worthy on his return had 
been to the effect that, just before his arrival on the 
scene, Carson had flown to parts unknown. Since then he 
had been once located in the Delaware Bay; but, before 
Hicks could get started, a second report informed them 
that he had moved, and nothing further had been heard 
of him. As Fanny Allen was no longer advertising for 
Carson, and, as she was known to have been absent from 
New York one day, Belfield felt certain that she had 
communicated with him, and that ere this he had received 
the package. 

Hence, his discomposure. Of course, it might be 
that the package did not contain the will at all; but he 
could not escape the conviction that it did; and, for all 
that he knew, it was at that moment in the hands of his 
niece. The fact of his having heard nothing from her 
about it seemed to indicate that such was not the case; 
and he thought it more probable that Carson supposed 
her to be still with him, and that he was holding the will 
pending an opportunity to deliver it in person. This un- 
certainty as to the facts was intolerable, and he had now 
resolved to take desperate measures, if necessary, what- 
ever the risks. He had even thought of having Carson 
arrested on a trumped-up charge, in the hope of getting 
possession of the will through his influence with the 
courts and the officers who would make the arrest; but, 
upon second thought, he saw grave dangers in such a 
course, and decided against it. 

179 


Eminent Respectability. 


Manifestly, his best course was now, as it had always 
been in such matters, to work in the dark, and with as 
little assistance as possible. 

For the failures of the past, he blamed the luckless 
Hicks, who was now vigorously resenting Belfield^s ill- 
tempered comments. That individual expressed him- 
self as being “sick of the job,” and anxious to abandon 
it. Moreover, he hinted that Belfield could not afford 
to quarrel with him, of which fact the latter was painfully 
conscious. 

At the close of the interivew, a yellowish looking mid- 
dle-aged man, of average build, and with the dress and 
general appearance of a countryman, was found waiting 
in the outer office. “Hello Cole!” said Junkin, who 
passed out of the private office in advance of Belfield and 
Hicks. “What brings you here at this time in the 
month? I can’t give you any money now.” 

“I didn’t come fer money,” replied the man. 

“What then?” 

“I come to tell ye that I’m skeered.” 

“Dreaming, eh? Well, Cole, if you don’t stop drink- 
ing rum, you’ll soon see things in your day-dreams that 
will scare you a damned sight worse than what you see 
at night.” 

“It’s no dream that I’ve come to tell ye about, but 
somethin’ very real. There’s a feller, who come up the 
bay in a boat day-afore-yesterday, inquirin’ into my pedi- 
gree and the circumstance of the drowning. I’m certain 
that he suspects somethin’. Least ways, I don’t like the 
looks of it.” 

“Hu-u-m ! — the devil, ye say ! Why don’t you get out 
of the country, Cole, as I’ve advised you to do?” 

“It takes money to git out of a country.” 

i8o 


Eminent Respectability. 

“Nonsense! YouVe had money enough to take you 
out twenty times ” 

“Well, a man's got to live when he gits out.” 

“Then go to work. What does this man look like, 
Cole?” 

“Well, he's a keen lookin' feller, but he looks as if he 
never has his hair or whiskers cut.” 

“How old?” 

“About fifty, I reckon.” 

“Don't know his name?” 

“No. He come in a boat called the Robin, an' he has 
a bull-dog aboard.” 

“Heigh — o! why! Hicks,” said Junkin, stepping back 
into the private office, “what is the name of Carson's 
boat ?” 

“The Robin,” replied Hicks. 

“Does Carson wear long hair and whiskers?” 

“Yes.” 

“And has he a dog?” 

“Yes; and a damned vicious cur he is.” 

“How do you know that?” growled Belfield. 

“Oh, I heard so from the townspeople,” replied Hicks. 

“I thought you spoke like one who knew from experi- 
ence,” replied Belfield, sarcastically. 

“Hicks,” said Junkin, “I must see Mr. Belfield alone 
for awhile. Will you excuse us?” 

“Certainly,” replied Hicks, who immediately withdrew, 
whereupon Cole took his place, and a second interview 
was held. As a result of this interview, Henry Belfield 
was more disturbed, perhaps, than he had ever before 
had occasion to be. It was then evident that Carson 
was heading either for New York or for B — ; and it was 
equally evident that he was bent on mischief — the result, 
no doubt, of coming into contact with Fanny Allen. 
i8i 


CHAPTER XIX. 


“Let Hercules himself do what he may, 

The cat will mew, and dog will have his day." — Hamlet. 

The night following the Robin^s departure from Bar- 
negat Bay, she lay at anchor in the harbor below New 
York. The next day she proceeded to the city, where 
Carson spent several hours, incidentally calling upon 
Fanny and Phyllis. In the evening he returned to his 
anchorage, and the next day he entered the river on his 
way to B — . 

He now released the man whom he had hired to help 
him bring the Robin from the Delaware; a second one, 
who had worked his passage, having left him in New 
York. Late that afternoon, he tied up to a small, iso- 
lated wharf, about two miles short of his destination, 
with a view to proceeding by the next day’s flood. 

His suspense would now soon be over. From where 
the Robin lay, could be seen the house of Henry Belfield, 
surrounded by tall, bare trees, over and through which 
glistened the church spires of B — . A mile further on was 
the home of Joel Webster; and, as Carson’s gaze wan- 
dered off in that direction, his face wore an anxious, 
nervous expression. There was much in the prospect 
before him to quicken his emotions. Indeed, he felt that 
there now lay within the range of his eye all of humanity 

182 


Eminent Respectability. 

that linked him in interest to his race. What a slender 
thread it was ! His parents were no more. Brother or 
sister he never had. The few friends of his early life 
were widely scattered over the country, and had long 
been but a pleasant recollection to him. In yonder tree- 
girt mansion lived the only woman that had ever awak- 
ened within him the tender passion called love. Love ! 
the mental affinity that works those subtle illusions that 
make even physical defects seem conspicuous features of 
ideal beauty; the most commonplace mind, a fountain of 
wit and wisdom; and melts the most j)ied character into 
an appearance of spotless purity! The mysterious work- 
ings of mysterious Nature in carrying out her high 
design! 

As we have intimated, this love and its sequel had, by 
the light of ordinary, worldly wisdom, been unfortunate. 
Of this, we must Suspend judgment. For we have 
learned that, in such matters— indeed, in all matters that 
science has not separated from the realms of “opinion” — 
worldly wisdom is not reliable — that it is, in fact, no wis- 
dom at all. Said Tennyson: 

I hold it true, whatever befall, 

I feel it when I sorrow most — 

Tis better to have loved and lost 
Than never to have loved at all. 

If the philosopher-poet was right, then Casper Car- 
son’s love may not have been unfortunate. The worldly 
observation that he did not lose, but deliberately yielded 
what he had won, is a mere quibble. Casper Carson 
knew that to be bound in matrimony to one not loved 
was to be chained to a death. He fully understood that 
a lawful union brings happiness to both or to neither, 

183 


Eminent Respectability. 


and he was too generous to accept a sacrifice from an- 
other, even had he not understood this. Hence, when he 
saw that his wife preferred another, he met the situation 
like a philosopher. He saw that he had “loved and lost,” 
and that to quarrel, with either his wife or the man she 
loved, would be fatuous and productive only of evil. 
Would he have loved another more successfully, had he 
not first met and loved Theresa Van Dusen? Who can 
say? The fact is, that Casper Carson was not, in the 
opinion of the world, a lovable man. He was too in- 
tense, too rigid, too much wedded to his ideals. He took 
the world too seriously. True, as a husband, he was 
kind and indulgent; as a friend, obliging; as a citizen, 
honorable and just; but such was his moral temper, that 
he would not fuse and harmonize with the frivolous and 
hypocritical world in which he had awakened. 

In these sublunary precincts, su(Ti a man is a “misfit;” 
and, however generously endowed by Nature, he can be 
nothing else than a “nobody.” And he can be steadfastly 
loved only by a kindred spirit, the chances of meeting 
with which, of the right age and sex, are not, we take it, 
very great. Hence, it seems probable, to us, that, had 
he not met and loved Theresa Van Dusen, he would have 
loved no other with more felicitous results. His love 
and its sequel, however, had been a determining circum- 
stance in his life. It had brought him to realize how 
completely and hopelessly he was out of harmony with 
the world, and to resolve upon a means of avoiding the 
discord as much as possible. 

There, also, was the man for whom he had been dis- 
carded. He had no personal grievance against him: 
he felt no desire for revenge. Yet, the thought of hav- 
ing been supplanted in human affections by such a man 
184 


Eminent Respectability. 

translated itself into a feeling of bitterness and an ex- 
pression of scorn. The world said that Henry Belfield 
was an eminently respectable man, a patriot, and a public 
benefactor. Casper Carson knew him to be an unprin- 
cipled knave who despised the world for its good opin- 
ion. But so devoted is the world to its idols, that he 
dare not say this, unless he should prove by a popular 
method the specific violation of some popular law. This, 
however, he now began to suspect that someone would 
soon do. 

He had not seen his former wife since their separation, 
nearly a quarter of a century before; and this was the 
first time that he had been in the immediate neighbor- 
hood of her home. He was now there because the star 
of a new-born hope hung over the home of Joel Webster. 
What his emotions were as his glance swept over the 
scene must be left to the imagination. They cannot be 
described. To be understood, they would have to be 
felt; and they can be sympathetically felt only by those 
who can adequately imagine them. 

Trivial and ordinary as was the circumstance of a boat 
of this kind appearing in these waters, the presence of 
the Robin was not unnoticed. Indeed, circumstances 
seemed to point to her having been expected. The sup- 
per work was barely done that evening, when Leonidas 
gave warning of the approach of a stranger. A moment 
later, a footstep was heard on deck. Then there came a 
knock; and, peering into the gloom, Carson saw the dark, 
shadow form of a man, who asked in a vaguely familiar 
voice the privilege of entering. “We don't boast of our 
hospitality here," said Carson, holding back the dog, who 
was anxious to repel the invader. 

“All the more reason for extending it," replied the 

185 


Eminent Respectability. 

visitor, who a moment later stepped down into the cabin. 

“Do you know me, Carson?” he inquired, as he stood 
erect upon the cabin floor with his hands thrust into the 
pockets of his overcoat. 

“Yes, I do; but your acquaintance is another thing that 
I am not proud of,” replied Carson, as he tried to quiet 
the dog. 

“Ah! then, unlike you, I have not changed beyond 
recognition in these twenty odd years? Time has been 
kind to me, Carson.” 

“The devil, too, I presume. You have undergone 
changes however, quite as pronounced as my own; but 
the word for yours is degeneracy, for mine, decline. Still, 
you seem to have exaggerated a little, inasmuch as you 
also recognize me.” 

“But I came informed.” 

“I am sure of it.” 

As may be supposed, this reception was not to Bel- 
field’s liking; and this last remark of Carson^s caused him 
sensible annoyance, suggesting, as it did, that the latter 
was too penetrating to be agreeable. 

“What are you doing in these parts, Carson?” he 
asked. 

“Minding my own business, principally,” was the reply. 

“I observe that you have lost none of your brusquerie 
and acerbity of temper,” he said, eyeing Carson sharply. 

“Does the leopard change his spots?” 

“But, usually, at your time of life, the intemperate fires 
of youth are burned low. Most men, you know, as they 
advance in years, grow in wisdom.” 

“Or in iniquity — according to their bent.” 

“Why do you say that, Carson?” 

“Because, when a man starts on a career of iniquity, 
i86 


Eminent Respectability. 

there is no turning back. Crimes are cumulative. One 
makes another necessary; that other must be protected 
from the light of day by a third; the third, by a fourth, 
and so on.” 

^‘Abstractly, that is true; but, under the circumstances, 
such an observation is irrelevant and ill-tempered. I 
am not charging you with iniquity, and I don’t think that 
you will specifically accuse me of any serious digression. 
You really should have no feeling against me, Carson. 
It was a hard case, for a fact; but you took the matter 
philosophically, and acted, I admit, in a manner that 
showed exceptional good sense. Now — ” 

“Hold!” said Carson, raising his hand deprecatingly. 
“Please avoid further reference to that matter. I told 
you once that I harbored no grudge against you, and I 
spoke the truth.” 

“And I would like very much to feel that you did; but 
I must say, that your present manner comports strangely 
with such an avowal. Come, Carson, change the tenor 
of your speech. Be reasonable. There are few men 
living that know better than you how to act the gentle- 
man.” 

“And few who cannot surpass me in acting the hypo- 
crite. You ought to know me too well to suppose that 
I could possibly treat a rascal as only honest men should 
be treated.” 

“Tut, tut ! there you go again. Pm not going to quar- 
rel with you Carson, until I have some cause other than 
the symptoms of a disordered liver.” 

“As you please. If you did not come to quarrel, pray 
what did you come for? Surely, not because of esteem 
for me, nor because it is your custom to visit wandering 
boatmen.” 


187 


Eminent Respectability. 


“But can’t you conceive the possibility of my having 
something to say to you that doesn’t involve quarreling?” 

“Not without conceiving myself to be a book, with an 
index.” 

“Well, well, as I said, I am not going to quarrel. What 
I came to ask you about, Carson, is whether or not you 
have lately seen or heard anything of Elizabeth Web- 
ster’s daughter, who is known in New York as Fanny 
Allen.” 

“You mean Elizabeth Belfield’s daughter.” 

“Elizabeth Belfield? What do you mean?” 

“Just what I say. When that woman’s daughter was 
born, her lawful name was, Belfield.” 

“That is not true, Carson. The woman said that in 
an attempt to justify herself and blackmail me.” 

“Well, if I do you an injustice, I will apologize when 
convinced of it; but, for the present, I am constrained to 
believe the woman.” 

“I tell you, Carson, it’s a lie!” 

The two men had become seated on opposite sides of 
the cabin table, which Belfield now slammed with his fist 
in fierce emphasis, bringing a savage growl from 
Leonidas. 

“Well,” replied Carson, calmly, “your denial don’t 
alter my conviction.” 

Belfield now looked wicked, and his white teeth were 
taking quick peeps between his twitching lips. Have 
you seen the girl lately?” he asked, after a brief silence. 

“Didn’t Hicks report to you?” 

“Hicks? Who is Hicks?” 

“Well, now, who is he? You know better than I do. 
If your knowledge of him isn’t sufficiently comprehensive, 
inquire of Junkin.” 


i88 


Eminent Respectability. 

“Oh! you mean the man that Junkin occasionally em- 
ploys?’^ 

“Y-e-s,” said Carson, with a sardonic drawl that sug- 
gested a rejoicing at the mental awakening of the other. 
“The man that came to interview me.” 

“How should I know what he reported?” said Belfield, 
struggling to mask his anger and alarm. 

“My dear sir, it is not my wont to talk with a man who 
takes me for a fool.” 

“I am not taking you for a fool, Carson.” 

“Then don’t waste time in idle talk. See here: You — 
or you and Junkin — hired the villain, Hicks, to hunt me 
up, and learn, if possible, whether or not Fanny Allen 
had communicated with me, and delivered a certain pack- 
age, found among her mother’s effects. What he learned 
I know, of course; what he reported, you know.” 

“Did you get the package?” inquired Belfield, after 
silently glaring at Carson for a time. 

“I did,” was the reply. 

“What did it contain?” 

“A private communication to me.” 

“Nothing else?” 

“Nothing for you. If there had been, I should have 
communicated with you.” 

“Anything for anybody else?” 

“If so, that somebody else got it.” 

“That woman stole a will from Junkin’s office,” said 
Belfield, almost in a shriek. “It was of no importance, 
however,” he went on, in a somewhat lowered tone, “hav- 
ing been superseded by a later -one, except that, in cer- 
tain hands, it might become the cause of some annoy- 
ance, which I naturally wished to avoid. And I believe, 
189 


Eminent Respectability. 

Carson,” he added, again raising his voice, “that that will 
was in that package.” 

“If it was, it fell into safe hands” 

“But you should have given it to me, or to my lawyer. 
It was the will of my Uncle Alfred, who, as you know, 
died without issue; and — 

“Then — if it cam_e to me — you or your lawyer got it.” 

“But neither of us have yet received it.” 

“Then it did not come to me ; or else — it was not right 
that you or your lawyer should have it.” 

“See here, Carson,” exclaimed Belfield, now in great 
heat, “Tve indulged you in your damned nonsense long 
enough. I want to know whether or not you got that 
will; and, if you did, what you have done with it. Do 
you understand?” 

“Aha! throwing off the mask, eh? Well, Mr. Belfield, 
take your own method of learning what you want to 
know.” 

“I shall find out, sir. If you don’t choose to tell me 
here, you will tell me in a court of law.” 

“Humph! again taking me for a fool.” 

“Which you will be, to compel me to take extreme 
measures with you.” 

“Well, I suppose the courts are your personal agencies, 
and I note that you call them courts of law, instead of 
courts of justice, which, doubtless, is a very appropriate 
distinction; but I shall nevertheless lose no sleep because 
of the prospect of arrest. And now that you have learned 
as much as possible of what you wished to know, you will 
perhaps be good enough to depart.” 

A most malignant scowl had appeared on Belfield’s 
face; and, now, with the quickness of a cat, he sprang to 
his feet, and, reaching over the table, struck viciously at 
190 


Eminent Respectability. 

Carson’s head with a dark object that he had stealthily 
drawn from a pocket of his coat. The latter, however, 
had not been unmindful of the possibility of just such a 
move, and was not taken unawares. He was as quick 
in warding off the blow as was the other in his attempt 
to land it. And, then — there was another presence quite 
overlooked by the frenzied Belfield. Leonidas was cer- 
tain to be a factor in an incident of this kind. Work, in 
such a juncture as this, was to him a delight, and we may 
be sure that he was no laggard. In an instant, he was 
on the table with his fangs fastened in Belfield’s arm, and 
watching for an opportunity to get at his throat. The 
struggle was brief. Belfield was disarmed, and, seeing 
that the battle had gone against him, called for quarter. 
Having succeeded in making the dog understand that 
the victory was won, Carson, who was between Belfield 
and the cabin door, turned to the latter and said: “So you 
would have me address you with honeyed speech and 
courtly manners? You — ^who have committed almost 

every great villainy in the calendar, and with results that 
would shame a cannibal! You would take me for a well, 
to be pumped at will? You supposed that I could see 
no further beneath the skin, and that I have no higher 
ideals, than the purblind fools that simper about you, and 
bow and flatter and fawn and truckle. Henry Belfield, 
make no mistake about me. I know your vile heart as 
your jeweler knows your watch, and never have I been 
for one moment mistaken with respect to it. You are a 
very great man, Henry Belfield, because you are a very 
great scoundrel and the people are very great fools. The 
admiring world probably considers only your quality of 
worldly greatness; but I have the fatuity to see and esti- 
mate only the quality of the man; and in you I see a 
191 


Eminent Respectability. 


devil, than whom no blacker ever strode a piratic deck. 
I warn you to never again cross my path. If you do, the 
tender feeling that I still have for the woman who was 
once my wife — the fire that I have never been able to 
completely quench — ^will not save you from disaster. 
Take this warning and go.” 

“You ride pretty high,” said the discomfited Belfield, 
with a weak attempt at sneering as he passed up the 
short gangway to the deck. “One might take you for 
Neptune himself, living in a mud-scow; but you’ll be a 
stranded mackerel when I’m done with you; damn you.” 

Having relieved himself of this malediction, he disap- 
peared in the darkness; and Carson, after exchanging 
compliments with Leonidas, dropped the Robbin out into 
the stream and anchored. 


192 


CHAPTER XX. 


“And if we do but watch the hour, 

There never yet was human power 
Which could evade, if unforgiven, 

The patient search and vigil long 

Of him who treasures up a wrong.” — Byron. 

When Henry Belfield left the Robin and set out with 
rapid steps toward his home, he was trembling violently 
from rage and alarm. At first rage was the stronger 
emotion. He had been insulted, defied, bullied, mocked. 
He had long looked upon the masses of men as a pack 
of fawning curs that snapped at each other in a struggle 
for his caresses, and brawled over such morsels as he 
thought well of tossing them; but here was one who had 
had the temerity to look him in the eye, and, not only 
spurn his favor, but fearlessly characterize him by the 
letter of the lexicon. True, this offender was one who 
cut no figure in the world; — a “nobody,” such as emi- 
nently respectable men could usually ignore as they 
would a mangy fice that snarled at them through a fence 
as they passed; — but, apart from any consideration of the 
fact that he possessed information that made him pos- 
sibly dangerous, Belfield had instinctively felt in his 
presence that he was a man to be noticed. He was a 
wanderer who lived apart from his fellows, — mere flotsam 
on the social and political seas, — but there was neverthe- 

193 • 


Eminent Respectability. 


less that about his presence that overcame all presump- 
tion of nihility, and asserted itself as the sum and unity 
of the attributes of a man. Over that unkempt beard 
were eyes that cast a spell, under the influence of which 
even Belfield had been oblivious of the status of their 
owner. Hence, obloquy and approbrium from him had 
struck with all the force of an insult from a peer; and 
added to this, was the humiliation of defeat and the pain 
from a lacerated arm. 

But, while anger was momentarily the predominating 
emotion, it had not really been the controlling factor in 
his conduct. He did not know that Carson had recently 
been in New York, and he probably thought that, by 
overcoming him in that lonely place, he might get pos- 
session of the coveted will. ’ And there was another cir- 
cumstance that possibly had an influence upon his mind. 
The man Cole, whose dreams had so wrought upon his 
nerves that he was now frightened by every unfamiliar 
shadow, had at last infected Belfield with his alarm. The 
full scope of the design with which he went to the Robin 
that evening, we can never know, but it is certain that he 
left without having successfully carried out any part of 
it. He had been bafifled, defied, threatened. His 
thoughts of revenge, however, were quickly expelled 
from his mind by a rapidly growing sense of danger. He 
now for the first time fully realized how the coils of fate 
were tightening around him. Carson’s presence in this 
locality was suspicious. That he knew some of his 
secrets, and at least suspected others, was certain. 
Phyllis, he was convinced, had, or soon would have, that 
will. Doubtless, she at least knew about it already. In 
the hands of New York lawyers, it would lead to ugly 
disclosures. Moreover, she would not marry the 
194 


Eminent Respectability. 

younger Junkin, in which event there would probably be 
trouble with the elder, and possible ruin. Cole had gone 
to pieces — taken to drinking and dreaming. Here was 
hell. Carson knew this; which meant — as Belfield 
thought — that the revengeful Fanny Allen knew it, 
along with other things; which probably meant that the 
police authorities knew it also. As these facts now came 
one by one into his mind for consideration, and as he 
saw, in his imagination, the spectral forms of the New 
York detective service dogging him with the persistence 
of his shadow in the moonlight, a cold chill burst from 
beneath the roots of his hair and ran down his spine, con- 
verting his alarm into terror, the cold sweat of which 
he felt upon his brow. 

His was not a mind, however, that such emotions 
could long possess. Being a man fitted by nature and 
experience for large affairs, however exercised his mind 
might be by complicated circumstances, he, like a true 
executive, promptly met the necessity for quick decision 
and resolution. However uncomforting it might be, what- 
ever he clearly saw to be inevitable, he could promptly 
brace himself to accept without lamentation. Hence, the 
terror, that, with a full realization of the gravity of his 
danger, came upon him like an electric shock, and for a 
moment seemed to sear his very vitals, went almost as 
quickly as it had come, leaving his features rigidly set 
with the impress of a stern resolve. By the time that he 
reached the house of his physician, whither he went to 
have his wound dressed before going home, he had be- 
come quite calm; but his tread and manner and coun- 
tenance and voice were not those of the former Henry 
Belfield. 

But the chapter of that day’s events was not yet com- 

195 


Eminent Respectability. 


pleted. “When it rains it pours” is a saying that doubt- 
less originated with some luckless individual suddenly 
caught in the coils of Fate, as Henry Belfield now was. 
Upon arriving home, he found other evidence of im- 
pending disaster awaiting him. Alex Webster had en- 
tered upon the task of establishing the fact of Elizabeth 
Webster’s marriage with the spirit of one who expects to 
succeed. And succeed he did. A newspaper advertise- 
ment, circulated broadcast throughout the state of New 
Jersey in search of the clergyman who had married a 
couple of a given description in Camden on Christmas 
Eve, i8 — , had in the course of a month, brought a re- 
sponse from a man located in a small town in the extreme 
southern part of the state. In his communication, this 
man stated briefly that he believed himself to be the per- 
son sought. Alex visited him at once, and saw by a 
single glance at his long, drooping, angular nose that he 
was his man. Although quite young at the time of this 
marriage, the clergyman proved to have been systematic 
and businesslike. Producing an old docket, in which he 
had entered his “business” transactions of that period, 
he pointed out the record of this very marriage — date, 
names, ages and witnesses; all correct, save that, accord- 
ing to the averments of Mr. and Mrs. Webster, which 
were supported by their private family records, there was 
a slight exaggeration in the matter of the bride’s age. 

Of course, after so long a lapse of time, his recollec- 
tion as to the personal appearance of the young people 
was vague. It was made particularly so by the fact that, 
at that time, the matter of marrying a young couple was 
an occurrence by no means infrequent in his professional 
experience. Nor did the photograph of the bride help 
him much, although he said that the face looked dimly 
196 


Eminent Respectability. 

familiar. He thought that the probability of his being 
able to identify the groom was remote; but he would 
swear to the fact and the regularity of this marriage. 
One of the witnesses had since died, but the other, who 
had been a neighbor of the clergyman’s, might yet be 
found, should he be needed. 

Alex, elated with his success, took a copy of the cer- 
tificate given at the time of the ceremony, together with 
a written statement from the clergyman, and started for 
home. Before reaching Camden, however, a new 
thought burst from its cell ; and, instead of going straight 
on to New York, he crossed to Philadelphia, and insti- 
tuted a search through the old hotel registers of that 
city. This, as may be imagined, involved considerable 
trouble; for the old registers had been filed or stowed 
away with more or less slovenliness, and the clerks were 
not uniforiTily gracious in giving the required assist- 
ance; but, nevertheless, by remaining over another day, 
he was rewarded by a partial verification of what he had 
suspected. He had thought it probable that the young 
people had remained in Philadelphia over night; in which 
case, they had probably registered as man and wife. 
This, however, he found no evidence of their having 
done; but the fact of their presence in the city that day 
was established, by the entry of their names in Henry 
Belfield’s hand on the register of the Girard, where they 
had apparently taken supper. 

Alex now felt that he had all the evidence needed to 
convict Henry Belfield of bigamy, and his first thought 
was of bringing about his arrest. But, upon duly con- 
sidering every aspect of the situation, he became con- 
vinced that the ends of justice might be best served by 
forcing him to confess his crime and make the greatest 

197 


Eminent Respectability. 


measure of reparation now possible, without disturbing 
his existing domestic relations. He shrank from un- 
necessarily bringing disgrace upon innocent persons; 
and, personally, he was willing to sacrifice everything, 
excepting a correct public repute as to his lineage and 
the legitimacy of his birth, to avoid it. He cared nothing 
for Henry Belfield’s gold. He questioned its cleanliness. 
But, if it should turn out to be true that Helen was his 
child, full justice must be done her, so far as it could be 
done with money and an acknowledgment as to her 
paternity. 

Consistently with these views, he formulated a propo- 
sition to be submitted to Henry Belfield as an alternative 
to prosecution. First, he must by a written statement 
acknowledge his marriage to Elizabeth Webster and the 
paternity of her child — or children, as the fact should 
prove to be. Secondly, should Fanny Allen prove to 
be his daughter, he must make her a suitable allowance 
of money. Thirdly, he must make a will, in which his 
marriage to Elizabeth Webster should be reiterated, and 
an equal provision made for all his children. 

Should these terms be accepted, Alex, on his part, 
would stand honor bound to take no steps toward a 
prosecution and to prevent the use of the written docu- 
ments as evidence in any criminal proceeding, to retain 
his old name, and to reside out of the neighborhood of 
B — while Henry Belfield lived. 

For reasons that we need not go into, he had deemed 
it best to say nothing of the matter at the Webster home 
until he “had it out” with Belfield, which he was pre- 
pared to do this very night of the latter’s visit to Casper 
Carson. 

So it happened that, when Belfield re-entered his home 
198 


Eminent Respectability. 

late that evening with a mind-load of bitter thoughts, he 
found Alex waiting for him. As he passed along the 
hall toward the coat rack, he recognized his visitor 
through the open parlor door, and knew instinctively 
that his presence was an aggressive play in the game 
with Fate. She could not surprise him; he knew her 
hand; but, as she now held all the trumps, his knowledge 
gave him no advantage. The only question that came 
into his mind was, “which card is this?” He thought 
that he knew. His first impulse was to excuse himself 
on the ground of illness; but, upon second thought, he 
determined to acquaint himself with the situation as 
quickly and as fully as possible, that he might know 
better how to meet it, and avoid suspense. It was not 
his nature to dally, to spar for time, or to in any way pro- 
long a struggle, when he clearly saw the finish. Not 
that he was what in sporting parlance is called a “quitter.” 
So long as there was the least ground for hope, he never 
faltered; but he was not a man that could doggedly hold 
on in a hopeless struggle, under the gaze of satirical 
enemies and pitying friends. When defeat was inevit- 
able, he had the perspicacity to see it, and the prompti- 
tude to accept it without unnecessary agony. His imme- 
diate course was decided upon in the short space of time 
required for divesting himself of hat and coat. He would 
see this card, and thereby narrow the uncertainty as to 
what impended. As he stepped into the parlor, Alex 
remarked his unusual pallor and gravity; but he was 
quite calm, and, having greeted his visitor with quiet 
dignity, politely inquired into his wishes. 

Alex proceeded at once with his business. In clear 
and direct language, he unfolded fully, and in proper 
sequence, what he had learned; and, in the plainest terms, 
199 


Eminent Respectability. 


and with emphasis of speech and manner that told un- 
mistakably of his resolution, he submitted his alternative 
proposition. To his astonishment, Belfield betrayed no 
surprise, anger, or emotion of any kind. Nor did he 
once interrupt him. He listened quietly and with a face 
almost as immobile as marble, all the while looking him 
steadily in the eye. Only once — ^when he observed 
Alexis assumption respecting his own parentage — did 
the lines of his face break into a barely perceptible smile. 

All this was in strange contrast with his manner and 
conduct of an hour before. But then, he was not really 
the same man. Within that hour, he had lost something 
that might be called the essential principle of his former 
self; namely, confidence in his mastery over men and 
Fate. 

Alex felt almost discomfited by the strange manner in 
which his words were received. He had expected a 
violent outburst of passion, indignant denial and defi- 
ance; and, assuming that there would be a quarrel, he 
had nerved himself to act his part in it creditably. In- 
stead of anything of this kind, when he had finished and 
paused for a reply, Belfield quietly asked him to come 
the day after the morrow for his answer, observing that 
there was much to be said, and that it should be first 
carefully thought over. To this, of course, the aston- 
ished Alex could but assent; and, with a polite “good 
night,” he took his departure, conscious of having be- 
come immensely relieved. 


200 


CHAPTER XXL 


“A sadder and a wiser man 
He rose the morrow morn.” — Coleridge. 

The work hours of the next day Alex passed in New 
York; but, at the request of his father, who wished to 
be absent from home that night, he returned to the farm 
in the evening to be company for Mrs. Webster and 
Emily. 

Perhaps never since the time of Antigone have brother 
and sister regarded each other with a warmer affection 
and a higher esteem than did Alex and Emily. The gen- 
tle and sacrificing nature that the latter had inherited 
had neither been stunted nor blighted by coarseness in 
her domestic environment, nor refined away by the at- 
tritions of so-called “higher life.” She had in a high 
degree the gentleness, the innocence, and the simplicity, 
that, taken together, make up what is called the “sweet- 
ness” of rural girlhood. This sweetness was, to Alex, 
the greatest charm of human kind. It meant truth, and 
justice, and affection, confidence, and virtue. Had all 
men and women this sweetness, Alex thought, this world 
would be a paradise, even though it were devoid of 
genius for science and art. For his part, he would rather 
be a naked savage among a people of Emily^s type, than 
an example of the highest civilization in a community 
made up largely of Virginia Belfields. His admiration 
201 


Eminent Respectability. 


for Phyllis was due more to the fact of her possessing 
this sweetness in a high degree, despite her environment, 
than to her physical beauty, exceptional as the latter was. 

Emily, on her part, thought her brother the sum of 
human virtues. His faults, such as they were, were, in 
the light of his virtues, like the spots on the sun, quite 
invisible to her admiring eyes. His skepticism, that ex- 
cited the indignation of the orthodox devotee, and his 
radical political opinions, that aroused the hatred of 
those who had profited by unjust law, and of those who 
hoped to do so in the future, were meaningless to her. 
She had known Alex all her life, and she knew him as no 
other did, excepting her parents. She knew him to be 
kind, and generous, and brave, and dutiful, and capable 
of no wrong. Did Alex say so? Then it was so; for 
Alex never lied. Did Alex voice such and such an 
opinion? Well, then it must be so; for Alex was never 
wrong. She was sure that, of all the young men in the 
world, Alex was the best; and that, among the young 
women Phyllis Belfield could have no equal. If these 
two would but wed each other, how happy she would be. 
This feeling she frequently confided to Alex, who always 
repaid her manifestation of sisterly concern by a caress 
and a kiss upon her brow; at the same time assuring her 
that she was visionary, and that she would direct his eyes 
among the angels, rather than among the meaner things 
of earth that were alone attainable. This view, however, 
the simple-minded Emily did not share. Why should 
she? Were not these two young persons the representa- 
tives of the highest ideals of their respective sexes? And 
was it not the most natural thing in the world that they 
should mutually attract each other? She knew that 
Alex admired Phyllis, as, in fact, all other men did and 
202 


Eminent Respectability. 


must ; and she felt positive that Phyllis, like all other girls, 
admired Alex, and that she alone was worthy of him. 
The matter of “social status” was little understood by the 
bucolic Emily, who had been taught at Sunday-school 
that men and women were, or ought to be, brothers and 
sisters, and who knew very little of the great world about 
her. 

As yet, she supposed Alex to be her brother. She 
knew of her elder sister, but, in accordance with the 
wishes of her parents, she never spoke of her to Alex, 
until he finally came to know of her also. Since then, the 
sister had frequently been a subject of conversation be- 
tween them. Alex told Emily of Fanny Allen, of his 
determination to prove the marriage, and of his inten- 
tion to bring Henry Belfield to book; but he always 
spoke as a brother. In these matters of simple justice, 
he had her best wishes, of course; but oh, how she pitied 
Mrs. Belfield and the girls! What commiseration pov- 
erty and obscurity had for wealth and pride and great- 
ness! 

As she usually did, when Alex was expected, Emily 
met him at the station, and brought him home in the 
buggy. On the way back to the farm, and at supper, 
which they ate alone, they talked busily upon those sub- 
jects that now most interested them — Elizabeth, Fanny 
Allen, Belfield, Phyllis— and, in a joking way, of Emily’s 
prospective marriage to a young physician of B— . So 
interesting and absorbing was the conversation, that it 
was not until supper was about finished that Emily be- 
thought herself of the fact of a stranger having called 
during the day to see her father and Alex. 

“Did he mention his business or leave his name?” in- 
quired Alex, when told of this circumstance. 

203 


Eminent Respectability. 


replied Emily; “but we think he came in a boat 
that’s tied to Turner’s wharf; for he was here about an 
hour after we saw it go up the river, and when he left he 
went across the fields in that direction.” 

“Did he look like a waterman?” 

“To tell the truth, he reminded me of pictures that I 
have seen of Neptune. He was brown as a bunn, and 
I don’t think that the scissors have ever been introduced 
to his hair and beard. Yet, he spoke like an intelligent 
man — but the gravest and strangest creature; I think, 
that I’ve ever seen.” 

“Indeed! You interest me. Did he say that he would 
come again?” 

“Yes. We told him that father would be away until 
to-morrow night, and he said that he would call then. 
But he was disappointed, I think, at not finding either of 
you at home. Perhaps he doesn’t want to remain in the 
neighborhood so long.” 

“Humph!” said Alex, in a semi-musing tone. “It isn’t 
far to the wharf; I think I’ll stroll across there. I want 
a little exercise, anyhow.” 

Arising from the table, he donned a cap and sweater, 
and fifteen minutes later his approach to the Robin 
brought a demonstration from the watchful Leonidas. 

The sloop, however, was not now moored to the wharf, 
but anchored some distance out in the stream; evidently, 
with a view to avoiding unbidden visitors. 

“Are you receiving to-night. Captain?” inquired Alex, 
as Carson, in response to his shout, opened a small win- 
dow and peered out. 

“No, friend, we are not, in fact,” replied Carson. “You 
see, having sent out no invitations for to-night, we did 
not put ourselves in a pqsition to receive conveniently.” 

204 


Eminent Respectability. 

“H-u-u-m-m!” said Alex. “Very frank about it. I 
rather like that.’^ “Well, Captain,” he continued, “I am 
the younger Webster, from the farm up here. They tell 
me that someone — presumably you — was up there to- 
day to see my father; and I have walked down to see if 
there is anything that I can do for you.” 

“Please wait — wait a moment, friend; Pll bring you 
aboard,” said Carson, quickly closing the window and 
going on -deck. A moment later, he dropped into a small 
boat that was tied to the stern of the Robin, and which 
a few strokes of an oar brought to the wharf. A few 
strokes more took it back with Alex as a passenger, and 
the two men were soon looking into each other’s faces 
by the light of the cabin lamp. 

Carson extended his hand, and scanned Alex closely. 
The latter took the proffered hand and attributed its 
owner’s singularity of manner to the palpable fact of 
his being a very eccentric man. “Is there anything that 
I can do for you. Captain?” said Alex, as both became 
seated. “Father will be away until to-morrow night, 
and possibly until the day after.” 

“No,” replied Carson, “I think not. At least, I think 
that I had best speak to your father first. I can wait.” 
“So you are Joel Webster’s son, eh?” he continued, after 
a brief pause, during which he had carefully surveyed his 
visitor. 

“It is so supposed,” replied Alex, quietly. “Do you 
know my father?” 

“Joel Webster? No. I’ve known of him for a good 
many years, but have never met him. You know your 
neighbor Belfield, of course?” 

“Very well.” 

“Considered a credit to his neighborhood, I suppose?” 
205 


Eminent Respectability. 


“Yes,” replied Alex, with a faint smirk. 

“By others than yourself?” 

“Yes. I take it that you also know him?” 

“Yes.” 

“Consider him a credit to the race, I presume?” 

“My opinion of him coincides with yours.” 

“I see,” said Alex, with a smile. 

“You know his niece, too, I presume?” said Carson. 
“Phyllis? Yes, slightly.” 

“Handsome, people say.” 

“They say correctly. Captain.” 

“And a nice girl, eh?” 

“Human perfection.” 

“ThaPs putting it strong,” said Carson, with a twinkle. 
“None too strong.” 

“You are not intimate with her, then?” 

“No; she belongs to a smarter set than I travel with. 
You have never seen her, eh Captain?” 

“Once.” 

“Recently?” 

“Yes.” 

“Don^t you agree with me, with respect to her?” 
“Fully.” 

“This is a fine dog. Captain. What is his name?” 
“Leonidas.” 

“Ah! he looks as if he might be worthy of it, honor- 
able as it is. Will it be safe for me to touch him?” 
“Perfectly.” 

Leonidas, who had been watching Alex closely, 
seemed to have no objection to his advances; thus show- 
ing a discernment that would be creditable to his more 
exalted fellow-animal. 

“Will you have a drink?” inquired Carson. 

206 


Eminent Respectability. 

“No, thank you; I never drink,” replied Alex. 

“Neither do I; but I always keep a little something for 
those who do. I find that there is nothing like liguid 
spirits for inducing good fellowship.” 

“Where it’s not spontaneous, eh?” 

“Yes; an artificial variety, as a substitute for the 
genuine.” 

“You don’t seem to be engaged in carrying, Captain? 
This craft looks as if it might be your home.” 

“It is.” 

“What do you call her. Captain?” 

'The Robin.” 

Alex gave a little start and looked at his host with a 
new interest depicted upon his face. “Ah,” he said, “can 
it be that you are Casper Carson?” 

“Yes.” 

“Zounds! what a surprise. And what a pleasure to 
know you, Mr. Carson! Let me shake your hand again, 
man. I have recently heard of you through a girl known 
as Fanny Allen.” 

“Whose real name is Helen Belfield,” said Carson, 
joining in the requested second edition of handshaking. 

“Exactly.” 

“You know her, then?” 

“Yes.” 

“Another nice girl.” 

“Uncommonly. And a very superior one.” 

“Yes — a sad case, hers.” 

“The saddest I’ve ever known of.” 

“She spoke to you of me, then?” 

“Yes; and of her visit to you in the Delaware.” 

“Did she tell you who I am?” 

“She told me that you were a friend of her mother.” 

207 


Eminent Respectability. 


“And—” 

“The sometime husband of Mrs. Belfield. But I 
would never have mentioned that, Mr. Carson.” 

“You need not mind doing so. The world knows of 
it, and I am not in the least ashamed of it.” 

Alex, feeling that the subject was a delicate one, made 
no reply, and the brief silence that ensued was broken 
by Carson. “Henry Belfield has much to answer for,” 
he said, musingly. 

“And he’ll answer for much of it, unless I am greatly 
mistaken,” replied Alex. 

“Do you know of any ugly reports concerning him?” 

“No; but I know that when he married the former 
Mrs. Carson he became a bigamist; and I have no doubt 
that that will, of which Helen told me, will bring more 
deviltry to light. So ardent a desire to unearth a will 
that, if found, would relieve him of a large part of his 
wealth, is very suspicious, to one who knows him as well 
as I do. What I suspect him of, however, is too large a 
subject to go into.” 

The conversation was now diverted to other subjects, 
ard for us to follow it would be a digression. To Alex, 
this new acquaintance became strangely interesting. 
Never had he met with one whose thoughts and ideals so 
closely coincided with his own. For the first time in his 
life had his nature found a truly responsive chord; and 
there was a delectation in the harmony that seemed to 
lift humanity out of its foul, disgusting sordidness, and 
transfigure it among the beauties of the world of his 
youthful dreams. At last, in this unshorn Diogenes, 
had he found a kindred spirit; one who, like himself, en- 
joyed excursions into the pleasant precincts of phil- 
osophy, and who could be to him a companion familiar 
208 


Eminent Respectability. 

with the landmarks, the currents, and the trails. By 
easy deflections, the conversation passed from subject 
to subject; and Alex, under the spell of a new delight, 
became unmindful of the steady revolution of the earth 

that bedtime at the farm was fast approaching — that 
it had, in fact, arrived; and that the folks there, whose 
bodyguard he was supposed to be, might be alarmed by 
his long absence. When he at last bethought himself, 
and looked at his watch, he was surprised to learn that 
it was ten o’clock. 

As he was about to depart, Leonidas rushed to the 
door, and broke out into savage growling and barking. 
“Somebody passing in a boat,” observed Carson.” 

“A late hour to be on the river, at this time of the 
year,” said Alex. 

A moment later, they heard the bump of a small boat 
in collision with the Robin, which was quickly followed by 
a slight sound, as of something falling on the deck. 

“Ha! What can that be?” exclaimed Carson, who 
hurried to the deck, followed by Alex and Leonidas. 

They heard the noise of rapidly-worked oars, and at 
a short distance up stream they could make out the dark 
outlines of a boat disappearing in the gloom. Near the 
rail on one side of the sloop, Alex saw a spluttering of 
sparks; sparks that he instantly knew to be issuing from 
a burning fuse. Springing to the spot, he flung the 
lighted cartridge into the river; and an instant later, he 
and Carson were thrown to the deck by a violent lurch 
of the Robin, and wet by what seemed like a chunk of the 
river suddenly thrown upon them. 

“To your boat! To your boat!” cried Alex, as soon 
as he could speak. “That fellow meant to kill you, and 
209 


Eminent Respectability. 


we must not permit him to escape. I see you have guns 
in the cabin; get one — and some cartridges. Quick!” 

Carson, though eccentric, was still human. Neither his 
philosophy nor his nature inspired him to present his 
right cheek when smitten upon his left. Hence, this 
suggestion from Alex was scarcely needed to start him 
in pursuit of the malefactor. 

In less time than is required in telling of it, the two 
men were in the small boat ; Alex with the oars, and Car- 
son in the stern directing him, and filling the magazine 
of his Remington repeater with cartridges. A hot race 
up stream ensued. The pursued, who quickly perceived 
that he was being followed, had a considerable start, 
and, as it proved, the advantage of having no “dead 
weight,” but the pursuers were in a light gunning skiff 
that was being propelled by powerful young arms. On 
they flew through the darkness, the pursued urged to 
his utmost endeavor by a sense of danger, and the pur- 
suers by a stern resolve to punish the dastard who had 
come so near snuffing out their lives. Alex had an ad- 
vantage in having Carson to direct his course through 
the gloom, leaving him free to bend his energies unin- 
terruptedly upon the oars; and under the circumstances 
this did much toward offsetting the handicap of extra 
weight. Before they had proceeded far, it became evi- 
dent to the pursuers that they were gaining. The sound 
of oars ahead became more and more distinct. On they 
sped, swinging around curve after curve; the black, 
sleepy water murmuring querulously about them. Closer 
and closer came the pursuers to the pursued. The latter, 
struggle as he would, could not hold his own with the 
little skiff, which closed upon him with the persistence of 
fate. Soon each could see the other through the dark- 
210 


Eminent Respectability. 

ness; and the pursued perceiving that numbers would be 
against him in an encounter, knew that his only hope 
of escape lay in landing and shaking off his pursuers in 
the fields or brush. And he had no time to lose, for the 
gap was being steadily closed. With a view to holding 
them off until he could reach a favorable spot for land- 
ing, he called out to his pursuers that he would shoot if 
they came closer. “A foolish thing to do,” replied Car- 
son. “I warn you that you will lose at it.” 

He evidently thought so too. Perhaps he was not 
really prepared to shoot, or, possibly, he could see the 
dark barrel of the Remington that Carson held. At any 
rate, he did not shoot, but a moment later drove the 
bow of his boat on the shore near some low trees and 
bushes that skirted the bluff overlooking the river. See- 
ing this Alex also ran ashore. “Shoot! shoot!” he cried 
to Carson, as he saw their quarry running across the 
open ground toward the bushes about fifty yards away. 
Carson, however, was loath to shoot at a fleeing man; 
even at one who had attempted to take his life. He had 
hoped to capture him, and now regretted having left 
Leonidas to guard the sloop. But the youthful Alex 
was not so scrupulous. He knew that the birdshot in 
Carson’s gun would not seriously wound a fleeing man 
at fifty or sixty yards, and he was determined that the 
culprit should not escape punishment. Hence, seizing 
the gun, he fired two shots in quick succession at the 
shadowy figure just before it entered the brush. The 
darkness did not admit of careful aiming, but both Alex 
and Carson were certain that the man was hit; for, at 
the first fire, he sensibly winced, and, at the second, he 
uttered a low cry. Alex ran through the brush to the 
top of the ridge, beyond which lay an open field. Arriv- 
2II 


Eminent Respectability. 


ing here, he saw that the fugitive had not left the bushes 
on the ridge, and that he had, therefore, either halted or 
run toward an opening seventy or eighty yards further 
up, beyond which was a dense wood of considerable area. 

It occurred to him at once that the man would prob- 
ably make for this wood, and he ran along the field to- 
ward the opening, with a view to heading him off. He 
guessed right; but the fugitive anticipated him and 
dashed into the opening fully fifty yards ahead, being 
helped across by three loads more of birdshot. 

The two pursuers, believing it useless to carry the 
hunt into the large wood, returned to the river, and, each 
rnan taking a boat, they rowed leisurely back to the 
Robin. 

Alex recognized the captured boat as the property of 
one who lived about a mile up the river, but he was cer- 
tain that this man was not the culprit. He conjectured 
— and rightly, as it proved — that the boat tfad been ap- 
propriated for the occasion. 

“Have you any suspicion, as to this attempt upon your 
life?” asked Alex, when they again stood upon the deck 
of the Robin. 

“Yes,” replied Carson. “I have no doubt whatever 
as to the identity of that man.” 

“May I ask whom you suspect?” 

“I suspect John Cole, the man who was with Arthur 
Belfield when he was drowned.” 

“Ah!” said Alex, who needed no further explanation. 
“I hope I hit him.” 

“And I am sure that you did.” 

Carson had no fear of being further molested that 
night, but, as a precaution, he remained awake until 
after daylight. 


212 


Eminent Respectability. 

Alex found Mrs. Webster and Emily in a state of mind 
bordering on terror. When he arrived, it was past mid- 
night, and they knew that, under the circumstances, only 
some matter of serious moment could possibly keep him 
out so late. Moreover, Emily, in her anxiety, had fre- 
quently gone into the yard to listen for his familiar foot- 
fall; and, having on one of these occasions heard the 
firing up the river, she had felt instinctively that Alex 
was in some way connected with it. Such was their 
agitation, that they slept little that night; but, notwith- 
standing their severe condemnation of his rashness, their 
idol was greater in their eyes than ever. The calmness 
with which he related the circumstances of his narrow 
escape from death, and the pursuit of a desperate culprit 
in the dark — the very thought of which almost stopped 
the beating of their hearts — was, to them, an additional 
example of his wonderfully heroic courage. 


213 


CHAPTER XXII. 


“Ambition hath one heel nail’d in hell, 

Though she stretch her fingers to touch the heavens.” — Lilly. 

The next day, Belfield was to “file his answer,” as the 
lawyers say, and Alex returned to B — again in the even- 
ing to learn its tenor. He arrived late, and, partly to 
relieve his burden of suspense and partly to avoid the 
necessity of coming into town after supper, he went 
directly from the train to the Belfield home. 

He received both his answer and a great surprise. 
The former was ready, according to promise; but it was 
very unlike anything that Alex had expected, or thought 
of as probable. It was complete, however, and unex- 
ceptionable. It admitted of no replication. It was 
briefly and sardonically set forth in a piece of black 
crape; which, as if to facilitate the transmission of its 
message, was fastened to the knob of the front door. 

For a moment Alex gazed at the expressive symbol in 
blank amazement. “Can it be possible?” he exclaimed, 
as he began to recover from the first shock. He was 
about to ring the bell, with a view to learning which of 
the family was deceased, when some departing visitors 
appeared upon the porch and gave him the desired in- 
formation. 

Henry Belfield was dead. Heart failure, it was said; — 
214 


Eminent Respectability. 

and truly enough, to be sure; — but, as we subsequently 
learned in confidence, the heart failure was the imme- 
diate effect of a self-administered narcotic poison. Fanny 
Allen’s hope was never to be realized. Her task was 
never to be accomplished, either by herself or by a co- 
adjutor. Henry Belfield was not to die on the gallows; 
nor was he to either languish in prison or be disgraced. 
By self-destruction, he had embalmed his fair repute, to 
the confusion of all who sought to blast or blot it. 

This closing act of his career was strikingly charac- 
teristic. To one who understood him, a knowledge of it 
would have occasioned no surprise whatever. He was 
not actuated by a fear of punishment; nor was he a 
blase, who, “having exhausted the wine of life, threw the 
cup into the face of the giver.” He was a man who 
would ivin\ who, by the very law of his nature, must win; 
and, when a change in the tide of fortune endangered his 
winnings, he had sufficient resolution to quit the game. 
He would be conspicuous, exalted, or he would not be 
at all; he would have the lion’s share of the sweets of 
life, or nothing; and to him, the sweets of life — the only 
things worthy of human desire — were power and exalta- 
tion. Life as a “nobody” — as “one of the crowd” — he 
never could or would have endured. For honest, scrup- 
ulous, dignified stupidities like Joel Webster, as well as 
for those of the less honest and less dignified herd who 
fawned upon him for crumbs of favor, he had a profound 
contempt; believing the latter to have small brains and 
scanty knowledge, and the former to be practically des- 
titute of both. To him, a suggestion of the possibility 
of a man of brain being honest, and gentle, and meek, 
was utterly absurd — in effect, a contradiction in terms; 
as the supposition of honesty and gentleness precluded 

215 


Eminent Respectability. 


that of aggressiveness, which, to his mind, was to living 
brains what heat is to fire. According to his views, 
honesty necessarily means comparative poverty; for it 
requires that a man shall have only the fruits of his own 
toil, from which no one can possibly grow rich; and 
poverty means obscurity, in which no man of brain would 
consent to live. The suggestion that all men might be 
moderately rich, if none were enabled by law to become 
excessively so, or to in any way restrain men from sup- 
plying their wants from the crude materials of the earth, 
and that the standard of mediocrity might be raised, to 
the general good of mankind, if none were exalted, had 
to him, all the absurdity and inanity of a disagreeable 
proposition; the ultimate desideratum being, not wealth, 
but pozver — a controlling influence in the affairs of men. 

Brotherly emulation, according to his philosophy, has 
no place in this world, unassociated with the syllabub or 
tea-custard; and the consideration of casuistical propo- 
sitions, beyond the walls of a women’s debating society, 
is ridiculous. Success, according to his view, is, by 
definition, the exaltation of one, or a few. It necessarily 
involves the failure and repression of the many; and it 
can be attained only through the fiercest rivalry, in 
which mercy and justice and frankness and gentleness 
are the frailties of the fools who are hopelessly wrecked 
or lost in the press. Hence, questions of ethics are friv- 
olities upon which practical men cannot afford to waste 
their time and effort. Success, with them, always justi- 
fies the means. 

He understood, of course, the fatal odium that is com- 
municated to a man by the hand of the law. Not be- 
cause it attaints him with the violation of some regula- 
tion or rule, however, but because it stamps him in- 
216 


Eminent Respectability. 

delibly as a fool — a fate to be avoided, even by self- 
destruction, when that is a last resort. According to 
his philosophy, the legitimate ends of government are 
two. First, the bringing about, by any subtle means that 
the mind can devise, the collection of wealth into a few 
hands, with a view to making that few powerful and the 
many weak and subservient; and, secondly, the protec- 
tion of those few in the enjoyment of their advantages. 
He understood that offenses against the rich ought not 
to be, and will not be, tolerated; and he himself de- 
nounced them in all sincerity. Not that he believed in 
the popular classification of human actions into right 
and wrong; not that he felt any abhorrence for what are 
called crimes per se; but he, like others, desired personal 
protection and freedom from annoyance. At the thought 
of murder, all men pale; particularly the very rich, whose 
possessions tempt and whose aggressions ofttimes incite 
to it. Forgery is peculiarly an offense against the rich, 
and one that they particularly abominate. The severe 
punishments inflicted upon those who are found guilty 
of these and other offenses against the owners of prop- 
erty, he fully approved of and frequently dictated; yet, 
whether or not one or more of these offenses could be 
wisely committed in any particular case, was, in his opin- 
ion, altogether a matter of circumstances — of weighing 
the stake and the risk. He saw no more wrong in kill- 
ing a man for his property than in killing a bear for its 
pelt; no more moral objection to the killing of one who 
blocked the way to the accomplishment of a purpose, 
than to killing off a part of a nation to secure dominion 
over the rest of it. Nor did he believe that anybody else 
did. The world has never condemned the Jews for mur- 
dering and robbing and ravishing the Canaanites, the 
217 


Eminent Respectability. 


Romans for murdering by the million and sacking the 
then known world, nor modern Europeans for carrying 
murder and pillage into Africa, Asia, America and the 
islands of every ocean, and among every people not 
strong enough to resist them. Man has always been a 
murdering and pillaging animal, and when men con- 
demn these propensities, they do so only with a view to 
their own safety, or with a hypocritical assumption of 
moral superiority, when they themselves have nothing 
to gain by indulging them. 

When he played and failed to win, he was not the man 
to cry over the result. Yet, though he failed to win, he 
could never lose. In taking risks with Fate, he held his 
wager in his own hand while the dice were thrown, so 
that, in case the fall should be against him, he could 
swallow the stake, laugh at the winner, and slam the 
door of the grave in his face. 

One of the tenets of his practical philosophy was: 
‘‘If you would pick a man’s pocket, get close to him, but 
never associate with him.” Accordingly, he made a 
formal profession of Christianity, just as Cicero did of 
Paganism, and for the same reason. It gave him entree 
to the hearts of the people, and the fuller citizenship es- 
sential to his career. Society did not impose upon him 
the inconvenience of practicing Christianity. Its demand 
was limited to an assent, express or implied, to a gen- 
eral doctrine, upon the tenets of which he was required 
to pass no examination. Nor did the masses, who de- 
manded this assent, ask for Christian fraternity. They 
were quite satisfied, like the pagans of old, with an ad- 
mission of the existence and power and glory of their 
god. He and his class were at liberty to have their own 
churches, that neither might their eyes be offended by 
218 


Eminent Respectability. 

tanned skins, rough hands, or cheap clothes, nor their 
ears by the fervid amen of the zealot. They could select 
their own clergymen, and thereby avoid being bored by 
an insistence upon a literal construction of the Com- 
mandments and cant dissertations upon the Sermon on 
the Mount. 

Hence, he and his friends made “religious’^ observance 
doubly profitable. Their church membership was an 
exclusive social organization, the services were made 
enjoyable occasions for meeting friends and feasting 
upon music by the best talent ; and they at the same time 
secured all the worldly advantages that result from con- 
formity to popular usages, and as much credit for Chris- 
tian sacrifice as would have been given them had they 
practiced the piety of Fenelon and the asceticism of the 
Pillar Saints. Truly, it cost them little to be Christians! 
They could “do evil deeds like Zimri and claim a godly 
reward like Phinehas.” 

Such was Henry Belfield in fact. What shall we say 
of him as a matter of opinion? We may use his name 
as a noun appellative, and say, there are many Henry 
Belfields throughout the country; all of them being 
more or less conspicuous in political and industrial af- 
fairs. And, if we are to accept as a verity the logical 
inference from the esteem in which they are apparently 
held — the favor and confidence, the hand service, the lip 
service, the eye service, the ear service, and the heart 
service, that the masses, as well as the classes, bestow 
upon them — ^then we are to conclude that the high esti- 
mate put upon our Henry Belfield by the majority of 
his fellow citizens denotes a natural relation between his 
character and popular ideals. If this provisional con- 
clusion be the actual truth, we, for our insignificant part, 
219 


Eminent Respectability. 


regret the character of popular ideals. It is probable 
that we would be perverse enough to dissent from every- 
thing that their apologists might say in justification of 
them. 

“We must have leaders,” says one. True, we reply; 
but your inference is, that we must have self-appointed 
leaders, to which we unhesitatingly demur. Self- 
appointed leaders are generally men of ability, it is true; 
but they are the Syllas, the Borgias, and the Timours 
of the world. Safe leaders are never self-seekers; and 
self-seekers should never, in our humble opinion, be in- 
trusted with power or public place. Alex Webster did 
not seek the office for which he stood. His opponent 
did. We submit our belief, that the voters of his dis- 
trict would have done much better had they rebuked 
their “leader,” and elected Alex. He might not have 
proved a legislative Samson, but he would at least have 
been one sound slat in the public crib. 

“But we must have such men to give employment to 
labor,” says another. To which we reply, that the di- 
vision of men into employers and employees — into capi- 
talists and laborers — is factitious. It is not the outcome 
of an essential principle. It is not necessarily incident 
to civilization. In so far as it has reality, it has resulted 
from a trend that human activities have taken quite ad- 
ventitiously. Annihilate at once all the so-called em- 
ployers of labor — throw their capital into the depths of 
the sea, and prohibit the relation of employer and em- 
ployed — and men will nevertheless continue to feed, 
clothe, and shelter themselves; although the industrial 
activities would necessarily take a new, and possibly a 
better, trend. 

“Ah,” says a third, “but such men are charitable, and 
220 


Eminent Respectability. 

charity is what the world most needs. Henry Belfield 
gave a bell to a church of which he was not a member. 
He helped to found a library in B — , and had he lived 
longer and continued to prosper, he might have held 
back from his expensive son-in-law enough to endow a 
college with. Hundreds of men were relieved by his 
alms, and no woman ever appealed to him in vain for a 
contribution to her pet charity. Such men are an in- 
calculable good in the world, and we must not look too 
closely into their faults.” To all of which we will give 
a willing assent, when it is shown that they do not in 
some manner first wrongfully appropriate the money that 
they thus contribute, and that charity would be needed if 
justice were first done. At best, this kind of charity is 
“bread cast upon the waters,” or, to use a modern ex- 
pression, “money spent in advertising;” and at worst, 
perhaps, it is given to colleges with a view to controll- 
ing the character of education and giving direction to 
thought. We see no reason why we should applaud a 
man for liberality by which he is enriched or protected 
in the possession of his ill-gotten gains, nor a magistrate 
for justice by which he is strengthened. 

Of course, should any Henry Belfield be known to 
have committed murder, forgery, burglary, highway rob- 
bery, or any other vulgar offense, he would be con- 
demned and execrated. But is not every one of them 
known to have the mental characteristics that impel men 
to these crimes? Is not potential murder and robbery 
latent within them? Is not guiltlessness in them due 
solely to their environment? — to a want of incentive or 
opportunity? “Thou shalt not commit adultery,” says the 
commandment; but “whosoever looketh on a woman to 
lust after her, hath committed adultery with her already 
221 


Eminent Respectability. 


in his heart,” said Christ in explaining this injunction. 
We submit the opinion, that society would do much bet- 
ter if, instead of exalting these men, or of permitting 
them to exalt themselves, it forced them to do at the be- 
ginning of their careers what our Henry Belfield did at 
the close of his. 

We are by no means convinced, however that what we 
have provisionally concluded is the actual truth. It 
seems to us quite possible that the Henry Belfields do 
not really represent popular ideals; but that their as- 
cendency is due to the faulty methods by which we con- 
duct our political and social affairs — methods that are 
particularly favorable to the ascendency of the aggres- 
sive and the vicious, self-seeking element in society. We 
hope so. For, if the fault is with our methods, there is a 
possibility of its being in some measure corrected. If it 
is with out ideals, alas! 

According to the newspapers, the people met with an 
incalculable loss in the untimely death of so estimable a 
citizen. In depicting him as a self-made man of the 
highest qualities and most splendid virtues, a patriot, a 
philanthropist, an ideal husband and father, there was 
not a discordant voice. He was, they said, an example 
and an inspiration to our youth, and an illustration of 
the great possibilities that America offers to men of 
merit. 

We are not much at a loss to understand why our 
press devotes space to men — living or dead — according 
to their “weight” in human affairs; but it is less clear to 
us why it is indiscriminating in the reflection of char^ 
acter, like water in the reflection of colors. As seen re- 
flected in a pond, a rose and a toad-stool are equally 
beautiful; and, from the newspaper obituary of one uu^ 

Z22 


Eminent Respectability. 

known to us we can seldom be sure whether the deceased 
was justly celebrated or merely notorious. We do not 
presume to quarrel with a custom that has grown up in 
editorial circles; but we confess that, as yet, we have been 
unable to see that pretty lies about our Henry Belfields, 
and the embellishment of their Hie Jacets with rhetorical 
compliments that are withheld from those who really 
deserve them, can possibly advance the best interests of 
the human race. “Never mind, the Macedonians are a 
blunt people; they call a spade a spade,” said Philip; and 
we would observe that, when the Macedonians were thus 
“blunt,” they were heroic and invincible, as blunt, truth- 
telling peoples have always been. 


223 


CHAPTER XXIII. 


“If music be the food of love, play on. 

Give me excess of it; that, surfeiting, 

The appetite may sicken, and so die. 

That strain again; it had a dying fall: 

O, it came o’er my ear like the sweet sound 
That breathes upon a bank of violets. 

Stealing and giving odour .” — Twelfth Night. 

For some time after taking up her residence in New 
York, Phyllis closely followed a routine; devoting a 
fourth of each day to her work, a third to sleep, and the 
remainder to her diversions. In the latter, she was 
usually joined by her friend and former school chum. 
Miss Burton, with whose mother she now made her 
home, as a boarder. She made rapid progress; and, so 
much pleased was her singing-master with her, that he 
one day told her that such talent as hers should be de- 
voted to the public service. To what extent, if to any, 
his opinion was due to her handsome face and figure, we 
know not. Nor do we know what Phyllis herself thought 
of her personal charms. That she was not unmindful 
of them, must be assumed as a matter of course, the con- 
trary being unthinkable; but this was a matter with re- 
spect to which she was careful to avoid taking the world 
into her confidence. However this may have been, the 
professor’s suggestion found favor. The idea pleased 
224 


Eminent Respectability. 

her. She thought that she would like stage life very 
much; particularly, as she would not be dependent upon 
it for an income. That she was influenced in any degree 
by the consideration of duty we are constrained to 
doubt; but, however this may have been, she signified 
her approval, of his suggestion, and, through his instru- 
mentality, an engagement was made at once. 

This was early in December. She was to take a minor 
part in a comic opera that was to open a six weeks^ 
engagement in New York immediately after the holi- 
days; and, in the way of an easy introduction to stage 
glare, she was to sing in the chorus of another opera in 
the meantime. 

She entered upon the preparation for her part at once, 
and with such zeal and success, that, when the time came 
for her to appear in her new role, she was thoroughly 
prepared, and quite accustomed to the stare of an audi- 
ence. Her debut was a pronounced success. At least, 
so thought her manager; and so, apparently, thought 
the audience; for, notwithstanding the fact of her part 
being a minor one, they distinctly honored her with their 
applause. 

There was one circumstance in connection with the 
performance, however, that considerably annoyed her. 
Upon an end seat near the stage, she saw Alex Webster. 
Desiring that her relatives remain ignorant of her new 
departure, for the present, she had taken every precau- 
tion that had occurred to her against their learning of 
it. Here was an unlooked-for circumstance that would 
render her efforts in this direction all in vain. And there 
were other thoughts to which his presence gave rise. 
She had learned through Emily that Alex was at work 
in New York; but why was he here? Of course, she 
225 


Eminent Respectability. 

had assumed a histrionic name, and he could not have 
learned of her engagement from the advance notices. 
“Did he expect to see me?” “Am I the cause of his 
being here?” “What will he think of me?” were ques- 
tions that she put to herself between the acts, and after 
the performance, and throughout the following day; 
but neither then, nor afterward — by herself, nor by an- 
other — were they satisfactorily answered. “He knows 
that I do not have to sing or act for a living,” she said 
to herself. “But why should I care what he knows, 
or what he thinks?” Yet, somehow, she did care. He 
was nothing to her, more than a highly-esteemed ac- 
quaintance to whom she owed a great debt of gratitude, 
and in whose welfare she had a peculiar interest. It 
could hardly be said that they were intimate. At home, 
he had always been shy and distant toward her; and, on 
the two or three occasions of her having recognized him 
on the streets of New York, he had done no more than 
lift his hat and smile. He seemed cold and ungallant, 
and was certainly disinclined to be intimate with her. 
Nevertheless, his presence there aflected her peculiarly. 
She was conscious of being both annoyed and pleased. 
The next morning she bought the paper that Alex wrote 
for, and looked eagerly for his review of the perform- 
ance. That he wrote it, there could be no doubt, for she 
was flatteringly mentioned, though in dignified terms. 
Of course, she preserved the paper. In fact, she has it 
yet, and admits that it is one of her most cherished pos- 
sessions. 

The next night he was there again, and the next; and, 
throughout those six weeks, he was seen in a seat near 
the stage four or five nights out of every six. Upon his 
second appearance, she, of course, knew what drew him. 

226 


Eminent Respectability. 

But why did he not call upon her? Why did he not 
accompany her home, as other and more or less obnox- 
ious persons persistently sought to do? But he did not. 
He only came to gaze upon her, and to hear her sing. 
How ungallant! how provoking! 

With the close of the company’s six weeks’ engage- 
ment, her contract expired; and, although her manager 
was very anxious to have her tour the country with his 
company, she declined all further offers for the present. 
As to the future? — perhaps. This engagement had been 
an experiment with her tastes, and she wanted to reflect 
a little before entering into another. She had found, as 
others find, that stage life had the general average of 
debits and credits. It was not without fascinations; it 
had substantial pleasures. Its allurements were not, in 
themselves, unreal or deceptive. Could she have pur- 
sued the calling without becoming in any way identified 
with its inner life — could she have gone to and from her 
work life an office clerk, and held aloof from those about 
her — she would have liked it. This, however, she per- 
ceived to be impossible; and, hence, to one of her tastes, 
the calling had some disagreeable features from which 
it could not probably be divorced. Artists, she learned, 
were not all refined persons. Some, indeed, she found 
to be positively vulgar; while those whose elegancies 
were, to her, downright affrontery were by no means 
wanting. Her personal charms naturally excited the 
admiration of the men who swarmed behind the scenes, 
as well as of those in the audiences, and their attentions 
and presumptuous familiarity were not at all to her taste. 

The past month had brought into her life two par- 
ticularly annoying incidents— the necessity for formally 
declining to marry George Junkin, and the matter of 
227 


Eminent Respectability. 


taking action with respect to Alfred Belfield’s will. 
Whether or not George was privy to the designs of his 
father and Henry Belfield, we do not know; but there is 
no doubt of the reality of his declared passion. This 
was to be presumed, as, among men, there was a unb 
formity of sentiment concerning her. He had followed 
her to New York with his attentions; and, not being 
given an opportunity to verbally declare himself,, he had, 
in his desperation, done so in a very carefully prepared 
letter; her reply to which, had, in a few kind words, 
swept at once all hope from his horizon. The necessity 
for refusing him had been painful to her; as she believed 
him to be sincere and free from any ulterior design, 
however guilty his father might be. 

The will she had placed in the hands of a lawyer, who, 
upon investigation found that she was entitled to at least 
$100,000 of Henry Belfield’s property. Strange as it 
may seem, in this money-loving world, Phyllis was re- 
luctant to take steps for the recovery of this fortune. 
True, her uncle was a villain and deserved no considera- 
tion; but she shuddered at the thought of distressing her 
aunt and cousin. Particularly so, as she was almost 
without either relatives or real friends. For some time 
she held out against it, but finally gave way to the advice 
and arguments of her lawyer, who pointed out the evil 
of permitting a man to profit by his fraud (of which her 
uncle had undoubtedly been guilty), and the injustice 
that might fall upon progeny of hers — a possibility that 
she did not venture to deny. “Why, Miss Belfield,” said 
her lawyer, with a smile, “if you don’t proceed at once to 
recover this property, I shall have you adjudged a 
lunatic and placed under the care of the courts,” Having 
that very morning — the day of Henry Belfield’s death — 
228 


Eminent Respectability. 

given the necessary authority, she came home at noon 
in what she fancied an unhappy frame of mind. 

Immediately after dinner, the postman brought her a 
letter, in the superscription of which, she recognized the 
familiar handwriting of Virginia. Repairing to her own 
room, she hastily broke the seal and read as follows: 

Falkenstein Castle, Germany, Feb. i, i8 — . 

Well, my clear, I am home. Home! How droll it seems to 
so denominate this dilapidated, mouldy, and utterly cheerless 
old pile! — so much more antique and romantic than nice. While 
speaking of it, I would say, that, to be agreeable, it needs re- 
building — in another place. With $50,000 spent on the mort- 
gagee, however, and a few thousand more in repairs and furni- 
ture, I suppose we shall be able to get on with it, after a fashion 
— for a while. 

As you know, dear, we digressed considerably from the plan 
of our wedding trip, which was to bring us here about the first 
of April. In fact, we have digressed and disagreed in pretty 
much everything. The one thing that agrees with the Count 
is cash, which is the anaesthetic for his hundred and one chronic 
maladies. 

How did I enjoy our tour? Ah! How did I enjoy the colic? 
(Not honey colic; there was none in our “moon,” as we did not 
reach Hybla). I am awfully disappointed, as I got to see 
scarcely anything that I had particularly set my heart on. Just 
to think: Algiers, Egypt, Palestine, Greece — all abandoned. But, 
the fact is, his luxurious lordship, the Count, has no interest in 
these “horrible ancient sepulchers,” as he calls them, and abom- 
inates travel among inconveniences. Outside of Paris and 
Monte Carlo, he seems to be as much out of his element in this 
world as a trout in a mud-puddle. After we left Paris, it was 
impossible to get him far in any direction away from Monte 
Carlo. To that pole, his face would turn like the compass needle 
to the north. His ingenious excuses and subterfuges you will 
find in my diary, a copy of which I will send you the next time I 
write. I am sure they will amuse you, although I do not recall 
having laughed much over them myself. I managed to get him 

■ 229 


Eminent Respectability. 


as far as Sicily; but — heavens! how glad I was to get him back 
to Monte Carlo and Paris! We finally “compromised” upon 
abandoning our tour and going home (?) How he will con- 
tent himself here, I have yet to learn. He will probably trouble 
me little, however — if he gets money enough. 

How do I like married life? Don’t ask me, dear; not in that 
way. Marriage, as an affaire du coeur, may be very well. I 
should think so. But marriage faire rhomme d' importance? 
c'est different. Yet, it is very well, too — from a standpoint. 
Entre nous, Phyl., it must be divided into two parts — a husband, 
and a title. Do I regret? Well — the husband, yes; the title, 
no. Is it worth the cost? To me, yes; to you, dear, it would 
not be. A little democrat like you could never appreciate dis- 
tinction, as I do; and what I am passing through would break 
your tender little heart. Never risk it, Phyl. Marry George 
Junkin. I must have distinction, — it is the law of my nature, — 
but you need some one to love and pet you. 

Germany, as a country to visit once or twice, is tres bien, as 
the Trench say, but I shall never be reconciled to it as a place 
of residence. This, entre nous, of course. I shall probably settle 
in London or Paris in a year or so. With my husband? Well 
— not if I can manage to take my title without him. If I can do 
this, I will have no more use for him than for a tumor. Ah! 
11 est till bete, un homme mechant, un homme terrible! Doing so, 
will, I suppose, make another heavy draft upon Papa’s resources, 
but it would probably be cheapest in the end. How lucky that 
I am an only child! 

I need not ask how you are getting on with your music; — there 
can be but one issue in that; — but how about your affaire d' amour? 
Don’t tell me that you have none. I fear, you inconstant little 
minx, that you have too many. Don’t permit the strength of 
your love to be broken by diffusing it through numerous little 
channels. Love only one. Love George — which I hope and 
suppose you do. 

Of myself, I have little to say. I have been uniformly well, 
tormented, bored — that’s all. And — ah, mes soupirs! — that is all 
that I now look forward to, until I enter the second period of 
mariage d'convenance. 

Write to me often, dear, and tell me everything. I enjoy 

230 


Eminent Respectability. 

your letters so immensely. They are a delightful stimulant, 
you know, and bring a temporary abatement of tnes soupirs. Je 
t’ envoie mille baisers. Yours lovingly, 

Virginia. 

P. S. — Of course, Phyl., dear, you will not show this letter to 
any one. Burn it at once. Nor do you repeat what I have said. 
You know, one must unbosom herself to some one or explode; 
and, for a confidante, I have chosen you. Tell all my New 
York friends, that I am well and happy, and that I am delighted 
with my husband and my home. I know that you don’t like to 
lie, but, in this case, you need only quote. 

Affectionately, 

V. 

To Miss Phyllis Belfield, 

No. — East Twenty-second Street, 

- ■ New York, U. S. A. 

As Phyllis sat musing over this letter, and v^on- 
dering what dear Virginia would think, when she heard, 
the servant brought her a telegram that apprised her of 
her uncle^s death, and contained a request that she come 
to B — at once. Within an hour, she was on the way. 


231 


CHAPTER XXIV. 


“Let us from point to point this story know.” — S hakespere. 

The circumstance of Henry BelfielTs death was very 
disappointing to Alex Webster, who wended his way 
homeward with an uncomforting sense of defeat, and 
feeling that complete victory had been snatched from his 
grasp by the derisive act of Fate. Nevertheless, much 
had been gained. The hope of inflicting punishment was 
gone, and the possibility of some measure of justice to 
Helen was more remote; but he could establish the fact 
of the marriage, and possibly his own and Helenas legiti- 
macy. He must now have a full explanation from his 
father (as he still called Mr. Webster). 

When he reached home, he found the supper awaiting 
his arrival, and his father entertaining Casper Carson in 
the parlor. From the countenances of the elder Web- 
sters, he saw at once that there was some departure from 
the “even tenor” of events in their little world. They 
denoted no uneasiness, however; but, rather, a quiet 
resignation. 

Carson greeted him with singular warmth and fervor, 
and acted in a manner that, in any other, he would have 
attributed to emotion rather than to eccentricity. The 
more Alex saw of this odd recluse, the more he liked 
him. He seemed to him like a transmigration of Solen 
232 


Eminent Respectability. 

or Epictetus. His strange demonstrativeness toward 
himself seemed inconsistent with the character of the 
man, as revealed in all other features of his^onduct, and 
Alex thought it must be due to the discoveryj in him of 
a secret sympathy, or affinity of mind. 

Supper was eaten with marked solemnity, each mind 
being occupied with thoughts quite foreign to the busi- 
ness immediately in hand; and, when it was over, Mr. 
Webster asked Alex and their guest into the parlor. 
Alex was vaguely prescient of a coming revelation in 
matters that pertained to himself; but Casper Carson^s 
interest in such matters was a mystery, of course, to 
which he had no clue. 

“Alex,” said Mr. Webster, gravely, when they had be- 
come seated, “prepare yourself for some information 
that will necessarily surprise you. You asked me three 
months ago, why I had not told you that Mrs. Webster 
and I were not your parents. One reason was, Alex, 
that I did not know of the possibility of finding a real 
father for you, and thought it best that you have at least 
a putative one. This reason no longer exists, Alex. A 
real father now claims by his higher right the position 
that I was very proud to occupy.” 

“Am I not the son of Henry Belfield?” asked Alex, in 
great surprise, as Mr. Webster paused. 

“Of Henry Belfield? No, Alex; you are the son of 
Casper Carson, our guest here,” replied Mr. Webster, 
quietly. 

We may imagine Alex’s astonishment at this sudden 
shattering of his suppositions by a revelation of fact so 
utterly foreign to any possibility that he had conceived 
of. For a moment, he looked at first his old father, then 
his new one, in blank amazement. Suddenly it dawned 

233 


Eminent Respectability. 


upon him that Casper Carson was not the husband of 
Elizabeth Webster. 

“Who — who, then,” he inquired, with a look of des- 
perate eagerness, “Who, then, was my mother?” 

“The present Mrs. Henry Belfield, who was formerly 
Mrs. Casper Carson.” 

At this, Alex arose and walked slowly to a window, 
from which he looked vacantly, too full of emotion to 
speak. His feelings we must imagine. There is but one 
thing with respect to them that we are certain of: — he 
was not pleased with this change of mothers. To his 
imagination, Elizabeth Webster had seemed a really 
good and gentle, though erring, woman ; a mother whom 
he could have dearly loved despite her folly. For this 
new mother — a woman who could be the wife of Henry 
Belfield, knowing his character — a woman who could 
put aside her child as an inconvenience, as she had evi- 
dently done — he felt only an unspeakable aversion. 

After a few minutes of silence, Carson arose and ap- 
proached him. “Have you no greeting for your father, 
my boy?” he said, gently placing a hand on the young 
man^s shoulder. 

“Excuse my thoughtlessness, father,” said Alex, ex- 
tending his hand. “So sudden is all this, and so aston- 
ishing, that I can scarcely realize the situation.” 

After a tender embrace, they resumed their seats; 
whereupon, Mr. Webster proceeded with his explana- 
tion. As the reader already knows, Henry Belfield had 
secretly married, and subsequently repudiated, young 
Elizabeth Webster, who, ashamed to face her parents 
and neighbors in what she considered her disgrace, had 
fled from home, and could never be induced to return. 
Shortly thereafter, Belfield asked the Websters to adopt 

234 


Eminent Respectability. 

an infant boy that had been born to a young’ woman of 
his acquaintance who had been deserted by her hus- 
band ; and, while they were in no mood to oblige Henry 
Belfield, they nevertheless thought favorably of grant- 
ing this request, having no boy of their own. They did 
so under a pledge of secrecy as to the child’s identity; 
and, in the course of time, Belfield married its mother. 
Of the child’s father, they knew nothing, excepting his 
name. They had been told that it was a case of delib- 
erate desertion, before the child’s birth, and they sup- 
posed that they would never hear anything of him. Mr. 
Webster frankly admitted that he had intended to break 
faith. He had against Henry Belfield a grudge, which 
he had hoped to, in a measure, satisfy. Besides, the 
child would have a natural right to a portion of his 
mother’s private fortune. Hence, he had intended to 
acquaint him of his parentage, in due time, that he might 
claim his rights, and annoy Henry Belfield. As he grew 
into a fine boy, however, they became much attached to 
him, and liked to think of him as all their own. They 
had moved to B — shortly after the adoption of the child; 
and, as everyone apparently supposed them to be its 
parents, and as they believed themselves capable of do- 
ing well by it, and for the further reason that their own 
child, which came two years later, was a girl, they de- 
cided against apprising him of the facts concerning his 
birth. 

Of his recent efforts to have Belfield do something for 
Alex, because of his own poverty, Mr. Webster said 
nothing at this time. Other matters were discussed until 
a late hour, when Alex accompanied his new father to 
the Robin, where they talked over plans for the imme- 
diate future and for the first time in their lives slept 

235 


Eminent Respectability. 


under the same roof. They confided to each other their 
respective feelings toward the mother and former wife — 
Alex, his aversion; the father, his passion, which long 
separation, and even her discreditable conduct, had not 
entirely quenched. Carson told of his wandering, se- 
cluded life, the temperament that had led to it, and how 
it was Phyllis Belfield who, like an incarnate angel, had 
directed him to the house of Joel Webster to claim his 
son, of whose existence he had never known. Her sus- 
picions they could account for only on the theory of her 
having in some manner peeped into the dark closet of 
the Belfields. Alex told his father of her having gone 
on the stage, of her success, of his great admiration of 
her, and how he had, during six whole weeks, feasted 
upon her beauty and the charm of her melliferous voice, 
as he could never have hoped otherwise to do. 

The next morning, Alex rose early, took his breakfast 
at the farm, and went to his work in New York; but that 
evening, and regularly thereafter, he returned to B — . 

While in the city that day, he took time to call upon 
Helen, who was not in the least surprised by the final 
solution respecting his identity. She congratulated him, 
and expressed herself as being both glad and sorry to 
lose such a brother. 

Neither had she been surprised by the news of her 
fathePs death. She was certain that he had destroyed 
himself, and thought such an end of such a life to be 
probably the most fitting one. On the whole, she seemed 
to be pretty well satisfied with the situation, and in the 
warmest terms expressed her appreciation of what Alex 
had done for her. “Now, Mr. Webster — or Mr. Carson, 
as you prefer,” she said, playfully, as he was about to 
leave her, “having found your parents, your next ad- 
venture should be in quest of a wife.” 

236 


Eminent Respectability. 

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Alex, smiling. 

“You would succeed equally well, and with little 
effort.” 

“Do you think so, my good sibyl?” 

‘Yes; I think I know where you could get one for the 
asking.” 

“Ah?” 

“Yes; and one that ought to be a rare prize to the 
most fastidious of men.” 

“Indeed! you flatter me.” 

/‘Not at all. Have your revenge on Henry Belfield 
by marrying his niece, and capturing a large part of his 
fortune.” 

“A — h,” said Alex, blushing, “I am not the fox to speak 
disparagingly of such fruit, although it is a long way 
beyond my reach.” 

“Nonsense!” said Helen, with a disapproving moue. 
“Such a supposition can only result from a faint heart or 
an optical illusion.” “I suspect that, in love, you, like 
most men of great physical courage, are a coward,” she 
added, with a pretty smile, as she closed the door behind 
him. 

That same day, Alex learned from a reporter that, 
on the previous day, the physicians of one of the city 
hospitals had taken nearly a hundred birdshot from the 
skin of a man named Brown, who represented that he 
had been accidentally shot while gunning. The next 
day, Alex called at the hospital to see him. He learned 
that the man was not seriously hurt, though his many 
wounds were necessarily painful. He was lying on a 
cot, with his left side down ; and Alex saw that his back, 
neck and one side of his head and body had been badly 
“peppered.” “Well, Cole, how are you getting on?” he 

237 


Eminent^Respectability. 

asked, pleasantly. The man was manifestly frightened 
at being thus addressed, and he gave Alex a quick, 
searching glance that told the latter plainly that he had 
again hit his mark. 

“My name is Brown,” he growled. 

“Here, yes; at home, however, it is Cole,” replied Alex, 
looking the man steadily in the face. 

“Well, if you know, that’s all of it.” 

“Oh, yes; I know. And, Cole, take advice; don’t go 
hunting men in the night any more. It’s always danger- 
ous. And, as you see, a Remington repeater, loaded 
with birdshot, beats a dynamite cartridge, even in the 
dark.” 

Despite his fever, the man turned livid, but made no 
reply. 

“And, Cole,” continued' Alex, “I have more advice to 
give you. Transpose yourself. Henceforth, do your 
dreaming and drinking in some other and far-off part of 
the world.” 

This advice he took. Immediately after leaving the 
hospital, he and his family departed — whither, no one 
knew. 


238 


CHAPTER XXV. 


“He spake of love, such love as spirits feel 
In worlds whose course is equable and pure; 

No fears to beat away — no strife to heal — 

The past unsighed for, and the future sure.” 

— Wordsworth, 

The old New York firm of Taylor & Allen, commis- 
sion merchants, was to be dissolved by mutual consent. 
Notices to that effect were being sent out through the 
usual channels, requesting creditors to present their 
claims and debtors their money. For thirty years this 
firm had been known as a staunch, safe, and honorable 
“concern,” and this action was regarded by their cus- 
tomers with general regret. The one reason advanced 
was “age.” Mr. Taylor was past sixty. He had two 
sons; but neither would succeed him in the business; 
one having become a physician, and the other a stock 
broker. Mr. Allen was fifty-five. His only son had 
gone West upon leaving college, and now held an official 
position in a lucrative mining business. Both partners 
were yet hale and vigorous; but, as neither would be suc- 
ceeded in the business by his offspring, and, as both had 
money enough for their needs, there was no incentive 
for maintaining it; and, hence, they had determined upon 
retiring, to enjoy their remaining years at leisure. 

A very sensible course, most men will say; but it is 

239 


Eminent Respectability. 


nevertheless true, that it is one that few find satisfaction 
in. To the man of fifty who has passed his life in suc- 
cessful mercantile pursuits, trade and activity are as 
necessary as is the cigar to the old smoker and toddy 
to a toper. “Business” is not a drudgery to him (al- 
though he generally thinks it is), but a stimulant, and a 
necessary occupation for his mind. Moreover, it is then 
too late for him to contract new habits as a substitute for 
the old ones. Hence, few men who have adopted the 
course now being taken by Messrs. Taylor and Allen 
have been contented with it. We have known several 
to return to their activities, through sheer need of men- 
tal occupation, while tottering on the verge of the grave. 

And, in truth, this ostensible reason for their retire- 
ment was not the real one. At least, it was not the 
dominant and immediate one, although they had pos- 
sibly succeeded in convincing themselves that it was. 
For many years, their labors had not rested heavily upon 
them. They had both had ample leisure and little worry. 
Yet, like other men similarly situated, they had believed 
themselves to be the hardest worked men in New York. 

We know men (doubtless the reader does, too) who 
appear at their places of business more or less regularly 
at ten o’clock; go to dinner or luncheon at one (having 
passed the intervening three hours principally in talking 
to callers, about matters largely foreign to their busi- 
ness); drive in the park every afternoon, when in town; 
spend their evenings at the theatres or their clubs; pass 
three months of each year in Europe, or at the various 
resorts; and, yet, firmly believe themselves to be worked 
almost to death; while their employees, who “grind” 
from eight to six — not infrequently working overtime in 
the evenings— during fifty or fifty-one weeks of the year, 


Eminent Respectability. 


have an easy time of it at their employer's expense. Such 
are the limitations of the human mind — and of the 
human heart. Something like this had been going on 
in the commission house of Taylor & Allen for many 
years. The house had been liberally patronized by 
shippers, because of its reliability, promptness in making 
returns, and “all-around” good business practices; in 
which particulars, the characters of Messrs. Taylor and 
Allen were undoubtedly reflected. 

But, in all successful commercial houses there is neces- 
sarily a “governor,” or “fly-wheel,” that has an essential, 
though sometimes a very simple, function. Generally, 
this “fly-wheel” is a proprietor, but not always. Some- 
times the function is performed by one who is not sup- 
posed to perform it, and who gets no credit for doing 
so. Sometimes it is performed unwittingly. Not in- 
frequently, by one who is obscure, and difflcult for a 
casual observer to locate. It is necessarily performed 
by some one, however, and it generally is by one who is 
seldom absent during business hours. He is generally 
the “grind” of the establishment. 

For the firm of Taylor & Allen, this function had for 
fifteen years been performed by Jacob Banks, familiarly 
known to the firm as “Jake.” Banks, however, had never 
been formally invested with importance, and was not, in 
fact, supposed to have any. He had settled into his 
proper place naturally, and almost unconsciously, just 
as the larger potatoes come to the top in the jostlings of 
transportation. In appearance, he was a tidy man of 
average size and build, with dark hair and eyes, regular 
features, of a singularly sedate and almost melancholy 
aspect, and upwards of forty years of age. Few would 
have taken him for a capable man of business. And, as 
241 


Eminent Respectability. 


an ostensible proprietor, he probably would not have 
proved to be such; for he was manifestly devoid of that 
personal magnetism that influences men and “trade.” 

As the “fly-wheel” of a business like that of Messrs. 
Taylor & Allen, however, he was peculiarly efflcient. 
The business details had been laid upon him as natur- 
ally as the heaviest work falls to the lot of the sturdiest 
horse. He seldom made mistakes, and was as punctual 
as the sun. He handled the money, paid all bills; and, 
while he was not supposed to have any authority, he, in 
fact, and without being really conscious of it, directed 
almost every move in the business. For fifteen years, 
the employees of the house — ^without being instructed to 
do so; but, either from necessity, or simply in recogni- 
tion of the “eternal fitness of things” — had looked almost 
exclusively to Banks for instructions. Being kind and 
reasonable, he was generally liked; but he was, neverthe- 
less, severely exacting, and he. insisted upon thorough- 
ness in all things. 

He was truly an odd character. Extremely chary of 
words, he spoke only when he had something to say; 
then, quietly, briefly, and always to the point. He sel- 
dom smiled. When he did, it was real wit or humor that 
provoked him to it. He never swore. He never drank. 
He never accepted an invitation to lunch, nor gave one; 
never visited his employers or fellow employees, nor 
asked them to visit him. For ten years past, his salary 
had been $2000 per year. He had been worth much 
more. Of this, his employers had been dimly conscious. 
Had he asked for more, he probably would have re- 
ceived it, and, possibly, have been better appreciated and 
more respected. As it was, they looked upon him as 
weak, yet they knew him to be particularly strong. They 
242 


Eminent Respectability. 

spoke of him as a “poor devil,” yet they were vaguely 
conscious of his usefulness, and well knew the danger 
of taking liberties with him. 

He was a bachelor, and his ostensible vice was limited 
to the cigar. The firm, however, had secret information 
of a liaisonwiih a woman — an improper woman — which, in 
one who handles other people’s money, is always, and 
very properly, regarded with suspicion by his employers. 
They had never ventured to say anything to Banks 
about it, knowing that he was not a man who would 
take such an allusion kindly; but they had found a pre- 
text for having his accounts examined — as they had 
done, also, on another occasion, when he had been 
known to invest several thousand dollars in stocks. 
These, however, had been found to be correct, and most 
scrupulously kept. This being »o, Messrs. Taylor and 
Allen were disinclined to interest themselves in his 
liaison; feeling, no doubt, that every man is entitled to a 
share in the world’s vice, and that, as this and the modest 
cigar were apparently the extent of Jake’s indulgences, 
he “averaged up” pretty well with his fellow-men. 

Ten days previously, Banks had given his employers 
a shock. He had thanked them politely for past favors, 
and notified them of an intention on his part of retiring 
from their employ. 

“Is it a matter of salary, Jake?” asked Mr. Taylor. 

“No,” was the reply. 

“Got another offer?” 

“No.” 

“Going to set up for yourself?” 

“No.” 

“What! not going to quit work?” 

“Yes.” 


243 


Eminent Respectability. 


For a healthy man of forty, and an employee, this 
seemed to Mr. Taylor a most extraordinary determina- 
tion. “Humph!” he said, “made money enough to live 
on, eh?” 

“Yes.” 

“Must have been pretty economical, Jake.” 

“I have saved $19,000 out of my salary during the fif- 
teen years that I have worked for you; and, in addition, 
it has borne some fruit.” 

“Indeed? Why, you don^t say so!” exclaimed Mr. 
Taylor, his face assuming a look of admiration. “And 
— a rather — ah — expensive friend, too, they say, Jake,” 
he added, slowly. 

“They say wrongly, Mr. Taylor,” replied Banks. “The 
friend that you allude to is not, and never has been, ex- 
pensive to me.” 

“Ah, well — we won’t say anything more about it, Jake. 
It’s your affair. But, Jake, how about investing your 
money in the business here? We don’t need it, as you 
know; but I am sure that I speak Mr. Allen’s mind, as 
well as my own, when I say, that we would like to give 
you a show. That would be only fair, you know; as you 
have been very steady and faithful.” 

“I appreciate your kindness fully, Mr. Taylor,” replied 
Banks, “and I am glad that you appreciate my workj but 
I have decided positively upon giving up business alto- 
gether.” 

It was now that Messrs. Taylor and Allen for the first 
time fully realized what “Jake” had been to them. In 
confronting the problem of getting along without him, 
it dawned upon them that during the past fifteen years 
they had really had an easy time of it. They knew that 
his place could not be easily filled, 

244 


Eminent Respectability. 

There was no one in their employ equal to it; and a 
stranger would have to be taught and coached and 
watched; and they might experiment with fifty without 
getting another Jake. They shrank from the idea of 
bringing younger blood into the firm, with a view to 
getting good working material; and there seemed to be 
only one other thing to do. This other thing is what 
they did — they decided to retire from business along 
with Jake. 

One evening, about a week after the death of Henry 
Belfield, Banks and Fanny Allen were dining in an up- 
town cafe. They were eating slowly. Manifestly, their 
conversation was of much more importance to them than 
their food, which was being minced, and swallowed in a 
manner more or less automatical. 

“Fanny,” said Banks, “are you absolutely immovable? 
Can nothing that I may say or do change your mind?” 

“Nothing, Jake,” replied Fanny. “Nothing that I can 
conceive of.” 

“Think again, Fanny.” 

“Will you never take my answer?” 

“Never — until your answer suits me.” 

“I have told you over and over again, Jake, that I do 
not love you.” 

“And I believe you.” 

“Well?” 

“Well?” 

“What more can I say? I dont love you. I never 
can love you. I can never love any one. I have no 
susceptibility to love. My heart is cold — cold as lead.” 

“Mine is warm, and I can love enough for both.” 

“And would you marry a woman who tells you frankly 
that she can never love you?” 

245 


Eminent Respectability. 


“Yes — that woman being you.” 

“It wouldn’t be marriage, Jake.” 

“Better, perhaps. So far as I am concerned, it would 
be worship. I could find beatitude in ministering ex- 
clusively to the wants of my Venus, and worshiping 
alone in her temple.” 

“Ah, Jake, your Venus would not be a Uranian Venus; 
nor even a Dionaen. She would be but cold, pulseless, 
soiled marble.” 

“No matter what — if I found happiness at her feet.” 

“But would you, Jake?” 

“Yes, Fanny. I can find happiness in this world only 
in ministering to you. I have consecrated my life to 
you, marry or not marry. I am not selfish in asking you 
to marry me. I ask it because I am convinced that you 
would thereby be made less unhappy. If you think dif- 
ferently, it must be your way; but let me, and me alone, 
administer to your needs.” 

“I can’t do it, Jake. It wouldn’t be right. You are a 
poor man, and will have need enough for all your money. 
But I’ll say to you, Jake, more than I have ever said 
before. While I cannot love you, I do greatly admire 
and respect you as a man; and you are one of but three 
men of whom I can truthfully say this. The other two 
are the recent acquaintances — father and son — of whom 
I have spoken to you. I have a warm regard for you, 
Jake; and, because I respect you, I cannot marry you. 
Do you think that I could respect myself, if I were to 
permit you to becloud yourself in my disgrace? No, 
Jake; you are not an old man yet. You have plenty of 
time to get over this passion. Stay away from me. 
Marry some respectable woman who will bear you chil- 
dren.” 


246 


Eminent Respectability. 

“I want no progeny, Fanny. I will never assume the 
responsibility of a parent. While I have gotten along 
pretty well in this world, I am not blind to its dangers, 
nor deaf to its sorrows. What you say^ Fanny, gives me 
fresh hope. I have your respect. That means much, 
to me. If more is unattainable, I will be content with 
that. I will not leave you, Fanny; I cannot leave you; I 
am your devoted subject for life. If you jump into the 
river, I will instantly follow you. But listen. You say 
that I am poor. I am no Astor, certainly; but I am 
probably not so poor as you suppose. I have been 
thrifty, Fanny, and have saved and planted the bulk of 
my earnings for fifteen years. I have planted in good 
ground; and, to-day, I have in hand $100,000 — honestly 
my own. It is yours, Fanny. Marry, or not marry, the 
money and myself are at your disposal.” 

“That is a great deal of money, Jake. I am very 
agreeably surprised to learn of your wealth; but I can 
accept no such sacrificial offerings. I am not worthy of 
it. Cure yourself of this passion for me, and devote 
yourself to some one who would be a credit to you.” 

“A worthier woman than you never lived, Fanny. I 
could not suppress or forget my love for you if I would ; 
nor would I if I could. It is a passion that I am proud 
of, as a thing free from all taint of earthy sordidness. 
My fortune is yours, Fanny. Use it in any way you like. 
But I have heard you express a wish that you could live 
in some quiet and remote place among the fields and 
woods and flowers and birds. As you know, I was raised 
in the country; and I express no idle fancy, when I say 
that I, too, have a longing for this very thing — under 
conditions. I am going to draw you a mental picture. 
I know of a fine old plantation, in a rich and healthful 
247 


Eminent Respectability. 


section of old Virginia, that I can buy to-morrow, and 
at a low figure. A very little money will restore the 
beauty of the old mansion, which is surrounded by acres 
of tall oaks, among which winds a pretty brook. Picture 
yourself as its mistress, and, in your fancy, surround 
yourself with flowers and fruit and birds in profusion. 
Imagine it all your own, Fanny, together with ample 
means to live upon, and a devoted servant at your feet, 
and you have a creation of the fancy that can be con- 
verted into a reality by one magical word. Will you 
utter it, Fanny?” 

“Almost thou persuadest me to be wicked,” said 
Fanny, whose eyes had filled while Banks spoke. 

“Nay, Fanny; it is only possible for you to be wicked 
by remaining here. Will you not abandon this life! this 
hell? Fly with me, Fanny. If I can^t win you by my 
own generosity, let me appeal to yours. If it is not pos- 
sible for me to make you happy, it surely cannot make 
you more unhappy to make me happy, by permitting me 
to remove you from this scene to the one that I have 
pictured.” 

“In the picture, Jake,” said Fanny, choking with emo- 
tion, as she smiled upon her companion through her 
tears, “I see, instead of a servant at my feet, a guardian 
angel by my side.” 

“You will go with me, then?” exclaimed Banks, eagerly 
grasping her hand across the table. 

“There ! there ! No scene here, Jake,” said Fanny, with- 
drawing her hand. “Are you sure that you would never 
regret?” 

“Can I add to what I have already said?” 

“And you have neither mother nor sister?” 

“I have told you so, Fanny.” 

“Well, Jake, I surrender.” 

248 


Eminent Respectability. 

• 

“And you will marry me?” 

“As you like, Jake; I surrender unconditionally ” 
“Thank Heaven, my angel! At last! at last! Let us 
leave here at once; I must throw myself at your feet.” 
“Where shall we go?” 

“To a clergyman.” 

And they did. 


249 


CHAPTER XXVL 


“My life is cold and dark and dreary; 

It rains, and the wind is never weary; 

My thoughts still cling to the mouldering past, 

But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast. 

And the days are dark and dreary.” — Longfellow. 

Phyllis readily consented to again take up her resi- 
dence at the old Belfield home, as company for aunt. 
The latter said that her stay there would probably be 
short, as she would not wish to occupy so large a house 
now, and, in fact, would not care to remain in B — any- 
way. She would probably go to live either in New York 
or in Germany with Virginia, as soon as she could make 
her arrangements. 

During the afternoon of the fifth day after the funeral, 
Mrs. Belfield called Phyllis into the library. ‘T have 
something to tell you, dear,” she said, as her niece en- 
tered. “Mr. Junkin is dead.” 

“Indeed? Why how you surprise me, Aunt,” said 
Phyllis. 

“Yes; this telegram states that he dropped dead this 
morning from apoplexy.” 

“So soon after Uncle Henry! How strange!” 

“It is remarkable, indeed.” “And, Phyllis,” added 
Mrs. Belfield, “what is this that I have heard through 
Mr. Junkin about you and a will of Alfred Belfield?” 

250 


Eminent Respectability. 


“Ah, Aunt, that is a matter of which I dread to speak,” 
replied Phyllis, visibly distressed. 

“You need not, dear. Tell me frankly all about it.” 

Phyllis did so. How she came by the will, its pur- 
port, what her lawyer had said — all. When she spoke 
of Casper Carson, her aunt gave a little cry of surprise, 
and thereafter seemed greatly affected. “You have seen 
Casper Carson, then?” she said, musingly, as Phyllis 
paused. 

“Yes,” replid Phyllis, looking at the tips of her shoes. 

“How did he look?” 

“Very well. Rather picturesque; but I like his ap- 
pearance very much.” 

“Does he seem contented with his wandering life?” 

“Reasonably so, I think. He seems to be naturally 
grave and serious; but he is very gentle, and — and — very 
intelligent, I think. 

“You liked him, then?” 

“Very much. Aunt.” 

“Do you know of his former relation to me?” 

“Yes.” 

“Did he speak of it?” 

“Incidentally.” 

“And of me?” Did he inquire about me?” 

“He asked about you this morning.” 

“This morning! Why, what are you saying, child?” 

“Yes, Aunt; I saw him this morning, and — and he in- 
quired after you.” 

Phyllis spoke in a low, even tone, and looked steadily 
and demurely at the tips of her shoes. 

“Why, where on earth did you see him?” asked her 
astonished aunt. 

“In his boat at Turner’s wharf. I drove up there 
while I was out.” 


251 


Eminent Respectability. 


“In his boat? at Turner’s wharf? Merciful Heavens! 
Why, what can he want here?” 

“He has been there for some time — ten days, perhaps. 
He came to see Alex Webster.” 

“Alex Webster! My God in Heaven!” exclaimed Mrs. 
Belfield, arising from her chair and proceeding to walk 
to and fro, wringing her hands. 

Phyllis continued to look steadily at the tips of her 
shoes; but, during the ensuing silence, a tear trickled 
down either of her pretty cheeks. For about five miu' 
utes, neither spoke. Mrs. Belfield had reaped the whirl- 
wind. Bitter she found the expiation of a transgression 
against inexorable Nature. If mental agony could have 
atoned for such a wrong, hers would probably have 
wiped out a large part of the heavy score against her. 
When she had sufficiently recovered from her shock to 
speak, she turned to Phyllis and said: “Do you know 
who Alex Webster is?” 

“Yes, Aunt,” replied Phyllis. 

“And does he know?” 

“Yes.” 

Mrs. Belfield fell upon her knees, and buried her face 
in her niece’s lap. “O God! how I have sinned, and how 
I have been punished,” she cried, hysterically. “Phyllis, 
Phyllis, my darling, dont turn from me — don’t detest 
me. You are my only source of consolation. I have 
done wrong, Phyllis, dreadfully wrong — ^and, O — h, how 
I have suflered! You can never know, Phyllis — never! 
My old days are now near at hand; and, instead of being 
loved and comforted, I see on every side only the finger 
of scorn and the hiss of detestation. To you alone, 
Phyllis, can I look for a comforting word.” “Don’t turn 
from me, Phyllis,” she cried, clutching at her niece’s 
252 


Eminent Respectability. 

hands. “Don^t turn from me. Tell me that you will 
not.” 

Of course I won’t, Aunt, dear,” said Phyllis, tenderly 
stroking” her aunt’s temple. “But come, don’t give way 
so. Calm yourself.” 

*^0 — h! how I suffer, Phyllis; how wretched I am!” 

“But calm yourself. There’s a good aunt. Perhaps 
you had best go lie down, and be alone for a while. Don’t 
you think so?” 

“Yes, Phyllis.” 

Phyllis led her aunt up stairs, and, having administered 
a stimulant, left her alone in her room; but, when she 
looked in half an hour later, she was requested to take 
a chair beside the bed. 

“Tell me, Phyllis,” said her aunt, “what can I do to 
lighten my load of misery?” 

“That depends. Aunt, dear,” was the reply. “Before 
we can determine upon a remedy, we must know the dis- 
ease. You must analyze your feelings. And, Aunt, 
dear, you must permit me to speak plainly with you. 
The first thing to determine will be to what extent your 
distress is due to remorse, and to what extent to shame. 
Think this over when you have become calm. Aunt ; and 
then, if you so wish, we will talk further about it.” 

“It is both, Phyllis; it is both. I have secretly suf- 
fered remorse for nearly twenty-five years; and now, 
shame and humiliation are added.” 

“Well, Aunt, as to the latter, nothing can be done. It 
must be borne. The former, however, may be in some 
measure alleviated by your future conduct. Did you 
love Casper Carson, Aunt?” 

“I did, Phyllis. I loved him truly. But shortly after 
our marriage, a change came over me; I seemed to see 

253 


Eminent Respectability. 


the world differently. This was mainly due, I think, to 
the talk of my family, who were proud, and never recon- 
ciled to my marriage to Casper. I was seized with a 
desire to attain a higher social position, and I saw that 
my husband was not the man to give it to me. He was 
too much attached to his books, and too indifferent to 
money. Hence I fell before the temptation that came 
across my path. And with the usual result, Phyllis — I 
have seen it since — the usual and the inevitable result.” 

“Your husband would have given you an honorable 
position, Aunt.” 

“Ah, yes; but, alas! it was a conspicuous position, 
rather than an honorable one, that I desired.” 

“Just so. I suspect. Aunt, dear, that this same ambi- 
tion is directly or indirectly responsible for most of the 
misery in this world. Priority, priority! everywhere this 
same struggle for recognized priority! A heartless 
struggle that should be expected only of the brutes — a 
struggle that brings sorrow and crime, where there 
should be only gladness and innocence; jealousy and 
hatred, where there should be only brotherly love and 
mutual helpfulness; fitting us, in our probation here, only 
for eternal perdition, and making a horrible tragedy of 
the existence of mankind.” 

“Phyllis, Phyllis, dear, you should not talk in that way. 
It’s wicked.” 

“Isn’t it true. Aunt?” 

“It may be true; but it’s wicked to say it.” 

“There are wickeder things done in this world than 
speaking the truth, Aunt. For my part, I think it’s a 
good thing to have a true picture of the world in front 
of us once in a while, to keep us from being led astray 

254 


Eminent Respectability. 

by the conscience-soothing lies that are constantly 
dinned in our ears ” 

“It is a bad world, dear ” 

“It is a good world cursed with selfishness and ambi- 
tion, Aunt,” said Phyllis, as she passed out to fetch some 
fresh water for her aunt. 

Mrs. Belfield remained in her private room the re- 
mainder of that day and all of the next, having no relish 
for food, beyond a little toast and tea. In absolute quiet, 
however, she found no relief. Her burden was her 
thoughts; and she found herself appreciably relieved by 
conversation with Phyllis, who remained in the room 
with her the greater part of the time. But she could be 
induced to talk of nothing but her immediate trouble. 
The feelings that had been pent up for so many years, 
ever intensifying, now burst into expression like lava 
from a volcano, and would not be stayed short of abso- 
lute exhaustion. Finding this to be so, Phyllis ceased her 
efiorts to divert her mind to other subjects, and , re- 
stricted her own words, so far as practicable, to replying 
to her aunt’s questions. 

“Phyllis, dear,” said the aunt, breaking a silence that 
had been of exceptional duration, “Alex was a fine boy.” 

“Indeed he was. Aunt.” 

“And he has grown into a handsome young man.” 

“I think so.” 

“And a likely one.” 

“Intelligent, surely.” 

“And honorable.” 

“Beyond a doubt.” 

“And brave.” 

“We Belfields cannot doubt that.” 

“You admire him, dear?” 

255 


Eminent Respectability. 


“Very much.” 

“Have you had any intimacy with him?” 

“Not since we were children at school.” 

“He fell into good hands. The Websters are worthy 
people.” 

“There are none more so, Aunt. Reared by them, 
Alex could not have been other than a good man, even 
had he been the son of some other than Casper Carson.” 

Mrs. Belfield again became silent, and spoke no fur- 
ther for perhaps half an hour. Then, as if unmindful of 
the lapse, she continued: “Do you think he would like to 
have a talk with me, Phyllis?” 

“Indeed, I can’t say. Aunt ; but he is high spirited, like 
his father, and doubtless very indignant toward you. 
Would you like to meet him?” 

“Yes, Phyllis. During all these years, I have longed 
to clasp him to my bosom, and have, at times, been able 
to restrain myself only for the sake of others. He was 
the child of my love, Phyllis — oo-hoo — the child of my 
love — O — h, how I suffer ! Pity me, Phyllis ; pity me — 
o-o-o-h!” 

“There, there. Aunt, dear. Don’t give way so. He 
may be willing to meet you; I will ascertain. But I warn 
you. Aunt, that you must be prepared for humiliation. 
If I judge Alex rightly, he is just; which means that, in 
this case, he would be severe. Yet, if you quite subdue 
your pride, and meet him with humility and contrition, I 
am certain that he will forgive you, as far as it is possible 
for human nature to do so.” 

“I will, Phyllis, I will. I have no pride left. If he will 
but take me in his arms, he may chide me as he will.” 

Phyllis said that she would undertake to have Alex 
sounded on the subject, and, later in the day, ventured 
256 


Eminent Respectability. 

timidly to ask her aunt if she would not like to meet Mr. 
Carson also. “As to that,” replied Mrs. Belfield, “my 
mipd is not quite clear. I loved him, and have never 
ceased to think well of him. He was an irreproachable 
man, and a kind husband; but I have done him such a 
grievous wrong that he can never forgive me. I could 
not expect him to. Nor would he probably care to see 
me.” 

“I think he would, Aunt.” 

“Do you really, Phyllis?” 

“Yes, Aunt; I think so.” 

“And, then, there are questions of propriety.” 

“I would not stand too steadfastly to the matter of 
propriety, Aunt. If you do not wish to see him so soon 
after Uncle Henry’s death, all very well. You can see 
him later. You should, of course, respect the latter’s 
memory according to your love for him and belief in his 
merits. But, in truth, my dear Aunt, your late husband, 
my uncle, was not, I regret to say, really entitled to 
much respect. This I have come to know within the 
past year.” 

“I know, I know; I soon came to see it, dear; but I 
remained silent through pride, and for Virginia’s sake.” 

“Mr. Carson still has a tender regard for you. Aunt.” 

“Ah, how can he have, my dear?” 

“How can he have? I don’t know. Aunt. But reason 
has nothing to do with such feelings. They are not 
opinions, nor convictions; they exist because of subtle 
affinities that I cannot explain. That is why some of the 
wisest men and women have been seeming fools as 
lovers.” 

“Yes, yes, dear, that is true; but do you really think 
this of him?” 


257 


Eminent Respectability. 

“I am sure of it. He as much as told me so. But — 
but I should not have told you this, Aunt ; it was said in 
implied confidence, you know.” 

“But he has not seen me for more than twenty years, 
during which time I have grown wrinkled and gray.” 

“His heart is of a constant fibre, my dear Aunt; your 
impress is still upon it.” 

“So you really think he would like to meet me?” 

“Yes, Aunt; I think so.” 

“Tell him that I will welcome him, if he chooses to 
come.” 

He came the following day. What passed between him 
and his former wife, we do not know. They met pri- 
vately in the library and conversed together for more 
than an hour, during which time — according to Phyllis, 
who sat in the parlor across the hall — no loud or angry 
words — no crimination and recrimination — escaped 
through the key-hole or transom. When Carson de- 
parted, he wore an expression of dignified serenity upon 
his bronzed face. Mrs. Belfield clasped Phyllis in her 
arms, but was for a long while too full of emotion to 
speak. 

The following evening, Carson came again, and this 
time Alex accompanied him. Mrs. Belfield having told 
Phyllis that they were coming, the latter, when she heard 
their footsteps on the porch, took up a position from 
which she could secretly scan Alex’s face as they entered. 
The expression upon it reassured her. There was no 
anger there, only dignity and kindness. The servant 
ushered them into the library, where they were soon 
joined by Mrs. Belfield, Phyllis remaining in the sitting- 
room at the end of the hall. 

This time, sounds — quivering sounds — soon floated 

258 


Eminent Respectability. 


through the transom to the ears of the trembling Phyllis. 
Few distinct articulations could be heard, however — 
little besides the hysterical sobs of a remorseful, woe- 
stricken, contrite, yet gladdened, mother. 

It was a late hour when the father and son departed 
and the weeping, trembling woman was tenderly led to 
her room and helped to bed. She spoke no more that 
night; but despite her great agitation, her gentle attend- 
ant discerned in her tearful eyes a serene light — a 
felicitous glow — that she had never seen in them before. 


259 


CHAPTER XXVIL 

“Truth is on the scaffold; error on the throne.” 

In the meantime, Alex was generally believed to be 
getting along admirably in his new field of labor. On 
the whole, his “stuff” was being very well received. 

While he could appreciate the fun of other writers, 
he understood the serious bent of his own mind, and 
made no attempt to amuse; but, what his product lacked 
in humor, rhetorical elegance, and raciness of style, was 
made up for by force of expression, purity of diction, and 
wealth of allusion — the results of his extensive readings 
and painstaking habits. In Mr. Ford, the editor-in-chief, 
he had awakened a kindly interest. While the latter 
had found it necessary to “coach” him considerably, he 
nevertheless ventured the opinion that this young far- 
mer was a “coming man.” Alex himself stood alone in 
an adverse opinion. He disliked the work. He had 
been at it now nearly four months, and regarded the ex- 
periment as a success only in that it had demonstrated 
conclusively that he had no fitness for the work, or that 
the work had no fitness for him. Convinced of this, he 
resigned his place. 

“Why, what does this mean, Webster?” asked Mr. 
Ford, in surprise, when Alex told him of his determina- 
tion. 


260 


Eminent Respectability. 

“Well, Mr. Ford,’^ replied Alex, “I find that it is not 
the work for which Nature has designed me.” 

“Nonsense, niy boy! You are doing well — exception- 
ally well.” 

“But it is not my work, Mr. Ford. I am convinced that 
one of the most important things to a man is congenial 
employment; and I find that journalism can never be 
congenial to me, as I once thought that it might be. I 
used to suppose that the printing press was the servant 
of the journalist, and that he had greater opportunities 
for doing good in the world than any other; that he 
could, in a large measure, stimulate thought and give it 
direction; that he might win fame for himself without 
engaging in rivalry' and competition. That was the “air 
city” of my youthful fancy. In the “mud hamlet” of 
reality, I find that the professional journalist is a fun- 
maker, a yarn-spinner, or a hired spokesman; and that 
the press is practically unavailable for the purpose of 
instructing the public in what pertains to their intel- 
lectual and material interests. The truth concerning 
any prominent man cannot be told. A first-class scoun- 
drel is everywhere depicted as a deserving patriot, an 
ignoramus is held up as a seer, while really good and 
wise men are invariably besmirched; and the facts con- 
cerning any of them will not be printed. Vicious so- 
phistry and nonsense fill the magazines and the editorial 
columns of most newspapers; but not a word in behalf of 
the truth, relative to any matter of the public welfare, 
will be accepted. If one assumes that a glaring editorial 
error is inadvertent and writes to the editor in the in- 
terest of the truth, his communication is thrown in the 
waste-basket, or, if used, it is garbled in a way that 
makes the writer seem ridiculous. Let him write some 
261 


Eminent Respectability. 


silly nonsense, however, in support of the editorial error, 
and his communication will get a conspicuous place and 
editorial reference. If one sets forth the manifest truth 
relative to some matter of great public importance in a 
carefully-prepared article and offers it to a magazine as a 
gratuitous contribution, it is almost invariably rejected; 
while vicious falsehood and arrant nonsense, written by 
Senator So and So, Congressman Blank, or Professor 
Numskull, are not only printed, but paid for at extrava- 
gant rates. One is practically told, ‘Don^l offer us any 
learned disquisitions on political or social subjects. Go 
get rich; steal a railroad; buy a senatorship; get elected 
to some high office; win the pugilistic championship; 
shoot Niagara, or jump from the Brooklyn Bridge; then 
we will print and pay for anything that you may choose 
to write.’ In my work here, I am obliged to write much 
that I know to be untrue; and much that I write that is 
true, and ought, in my judgment, to be said, is thrown 
out. I tell you frankly, Mr. Ford, that the work is often 
nauseous.” 

“To put it briefly,” said Mr. Ford, smiling, “you have 
just found out that money does the talking?” 

“Yes, money and privilege — which, to a great extent, 
are one — are given a monopoly of the ‘floor.’ ” 

“And that there is no market for the truth, in matters 
ethical; — that the people want to be amused, entertained, 
and flattered, and assisted in their individual undertak- 
ings, but not instructed?” 

“I am not so sure about the negative, Mr. Ford. I 
think it possible that the masses would accept instruc- 
tion, but the classes do not want them to have it; — except 
as they prescribe it; — and, as the latter have the wealth 
and the principal news-gathering facilities concentrated 
262 


Emiltent Respectability. 

in their hands, they control the press, which, in these 
days, is the only channel through which it can reach 
them.’' 

“And the masses haven’t sense enough to see and 
remedy it.” 

“It seems so.” 

“And they never have had, and probably never will 
have.” “Now, Webster,” said Mr. Ford, leaning back in 
his chair, “I am an older man than you; let me give you 
a little advice: Dont’ shed any tears over the social and 
political tribulations of the people. They don’t deserve 
it. Consider what they are. Many of those in whose be- 
half you would plead the truth would cut your throat 
for five dollars and a guarantee of immunity; and many 
very honest and deserving men would sell their country 
and their race to the devil for a bushel of potatoes. You 
know this, from some experience of your own. Don’t 
make a martyr of yourself, Webster. The people are 
not worthy of a sacrifice, and they never have been. Do 
you want their execration? serve them. Do you want 
their approbation and sufirage? serve their oppressors, 
or those who overreach them. Five per cent, of the race 
rob the laboring portion of it as closely as they do their 
horses, and others serve this five per cent, for a share of 
the spoil. The five per cent, are generous, and pay their 
servants well. They are also vindictive, and know how 
to punish. Defend the victims, and they will laugh and 
jeer at you while you are being assassinated by their 
enemies, and never raise a voice or a finger in your be- 
half. Note what happened to Spurious Cassius, to the 
Gracchi, to Christ, and, in fact, to all men who have at 
any time or in any place attempted to serve the masses; 
263 


Eminent Respectability. 


excepting, perhaps a few strong-handed monarchs, like 
Frederick the Great and his irascible father. 

“As to journalism, it is controlled by the rich and 
privileged, as you say. But this is the people’s fault. 
They never stand by a paper that supports them, as the 
others do ; they prefer reading the papers of the rich, 
which can give them most for their money. Take up their 
cause in your columns, and your advertisers leave you; 
for the advertisers are of the employing class, who feel 
instinctively that they do not belong to the masses. If 
the people would then, in turn, boycott the boycotting 
advertisers, they might effect something, perhaps; but 
that’s quite beyond their practical sense. The fact is, 
the average man is like a pig — fill his stomach, and he 
will yawn and grunt his satisfaction, utterly indifferent to 
the preparations being made for putting a ring in his 
nose. Inquire about the occupants of the journalistic 
graveyard, and you will find that most of them died in 
an attempt to serve an unappreciating public. Do you 
think that there is any glory or honor in such a death? I 
don’t; and I don’t intend to die it. Don’t sacrifice your- 
self, Webster; you’re too good a man. Tut money in 
thy purse.’ Be one of the five per cent., if you can. If 
you can’t, then serve them. If they won’t let you serve 
them, go at them and shake the money out of their 
pockets — only don’t get into jail.” 

“At times, Mr. Ford,” said Alex, “I feel very much 
as you do. But, at other times, it seems to me probable 
that, what appears to be an inherent defect in human 
nature, is really a result of the social system under which 
we live. The political institutions from which imme- 
diately spring the monstrous inequalities that we see in 
the conditions of men are easily understood, by a mind 
264 


Eminent Respectability. 

of ordinary capacity; but, whether these institutions are 
the result of an accidental trend in human activities, or 
an expression of the inequalities in human brains, is the 
question. It is certain that such inequalities are peculiar 
to the civilized state; but I am not sure that they are 
necessarily incidental to it. There is probably no greater 
range of differences in a nation of men than we some- 
times see in a family of children; but among the latter, 
who have a common parentage, we see no such degrees 
of difference; at least, not until they get to dealing with 
the differentiating hazards that result from our political 
institutions.” 

“From a practical standpoint,” replied Mr. Ford, “the 
situation is the same, whichever proposition may be cor- 
rect. The world has its trend, no matter from what 
cause, and woe to him who runs counter to it. More- 
over, the world is a ponderous affair, Webster, and, when 
it is once given impetus in a particular direction, it will 
hold that direction for a long while. Nothing short of 
a world-wide social chaos, from which, Phoenix-like, a 
new order might arise, will change existing conditions ; 
and that is as remotely probable as our tumbling into 
the sun.” 

“You think the Day of Judgment will arrive before 
the millennium ? ” 

“I am sure of it. And, meanwhile, the practical man 
will make the most out of the situation as he finds it. He 
will play the devil if he can; if he can’t, he will hold a 
candle to those who can; and, if they won’t let him, he 
will stir up hell until they do. Stick to your work, Web- 
ster. For a man of your ability there’s money in it.” 

“There is an insuperable obstacle to my doing as you 
advise, Mr. Ford. I find that the monitor of my life is 
265 


Eminent Respectability. 

the face that I see in my glass, and that this face scowls 
at every serious slight to my ideals.” 

“Ah, Webster, conscience is an old woman. We can’t 
af¥ord to listen to her scoldings in these swift days. Fur- 
thermore, you are in danger of incurring the enmity of 
the masses, who always hate a man whom they know to 
be conscious of his moral superiority.” 

“But I can’t help it, Mr. Ford. That is why I say, that 
I have no fitness for my present occupation.” 

“May I ask what you intend to do?” 

“I am going back to the farm, for the present. I have 
no plan for the future.” 

“I am sorry, Webster,” said Mr. Ford, shaking his 
head and looking grave. “Sorry to lose you, and sorry 
to see you throw yourself away. In my opinion, that is 
the very worst thing that you could possibly do. For 
the farmer of the present day, there is no hope. He is 
the greatest sufferer in our whole industrial system; as 
he has little opportunity for learning the tricks by which 
he is robbed, or for frustrating them by co-operation. 
He will be inevitably pressed to the wall. Some day, the 
present revolution in our industrial methods may reach 
him, and farms may be grouped, and worked by large 
corporations; in which case, farming may^ again become 
profitable; but, in that picture of the possible, we see a 
few great barons and a numerous proletariat, not a lot of 
sturdy, independent men, like our farmers of the past. 
Why don’t you try something else — law, medicine, busi- 
ness?” 

“The thought of practicing medicine has always been 
repugnant; and I could only engage in it as a duty, 
which I do not conceive to be imposed upon me. I 
would not succeed at the bar or in business, for reasons 
266 


Eminent Respectability. 

similar to the one that I have given for abandoning jour- 
nalism. I did think of the law; and, in fact, I carried the 
study of it as far as one reading of Blackstone, Kent, and 
Story; but, by that time, I was disgusted with the pro- 
fession, and felt sure that, if I should engage in it, I 
would soon get disbarred and fined for contempt of 
court.” 

“Well, such scruples as yours are a great misfortune, 
Webster. They are emasculating.” 

“I feel myself to be a misfit in this world; yet, I am not 
of a desponding temperament at all. I find myself 
capable of enjoying life in spite of the drawbacks. As 
for the future, I have not the least apprehension. I am 
probably destined to poverty and obscurity; but my 
needs are modest, and obscurity is a place of honor and 
tranquillity.” 

“Well, you have my best wishes, in whatever you do, 
my boy. I wouldn’t talk much about social and political 
evils, if I were you; it might result in your being taken 
for an anarchist.” 

“What is an anarchist, Mr. Ford?” 

“A kicker.” 

“Ah!” said Alex, laughing, “then I fear that I am one, 
sure enough. I went to hear a professed anarchist 
speak, not long ago; and his views so closely coincided 
with my own, that I have since suspected that I have 
been one for years without knowing it. I must say, 
however, that, in view of the high character of my in- 
structors, the thought has given me no uneasiness of 
mind or conscience.” “I understand,” said Alex, taking 
a notebook from his pocket, “that the anarchist phil- 
osophy inveighs against, not society, but government; 
i. e., rule over a whole community by one or more per- 
267 


Eminent Respectability. 


sons, in matters that are properly private. Well, in 
support of this philosophy, I find, in addition to my own 
nature and reason, the following: 

“ ‘That government is best which governs least.’ — Governor of 
South Carolina. 

“ ‘Government is, at best, a necessary evil.’ — Thomas Paine. 

“ ‘ . . . Hence, the less government we have the better — 
the fewer laws, and the less confided power. The antidote to 
this abuse of formal government, is, the influence of private char- 
acter, the growth of the individual; the appearance of the prin- 
cipal to supersede the proxy; the appearance of the wise man, 
of whom the existing government is, it must be owned, but a 
shabby imitation. . . . Wild liberty develops iron conscience. 

Want of liberty, by strengthening law and decorum, stupefies 
conscience.’ — Emerson. 

“ ‘What is the statute-book but a record of unhappy guesses?’ 

* * * 

“ ‘The “Whereas” of almost every preamble heralds an account 
of the miscarriage of previous legislation.’ 

♦ * * 

“ ‘It is a mistake to assume that government must last for- 
ever. . . . It is not essential but incidental.’ 

* * * 

“ ‘Thus, as civilization advances, does government decay. 
... Its continuance is proof of still-existing barbarism.’ — 
Herbert Spencer. 

“ ‘Laws grind the poor, and rich men rule the law.’ — Goldsmith. 

“ ‘Law is a bottomless pit; it is a cormorant, a harpy that de- 
vours everything.’ — Arbuthnot. 

“The law is a sort of hocus-pocus science, that smiles in yer 
face while it picks yer pocket; and the glorious uncertainty of it 
is of mair use to the professors than the justice of it.’ — Macklin. 

“And I could go on for the rest of the day citing sim- 

268 


Etniaent Respectability. 

ilar expressions from the writings of these and other 
authorities equally respectable.” 

“Oh, yes!” said Mr. Ford, “but these persons were 
philosophers. That is, they wrote for some other age — 
or some other world — than that in which they lived. The 
difference between a philosopher and an anarchist is a 
radical one. The first points out abstract truth, and the 
other attempts to apply it. It will be safe enough for 
you to be the first, Websterj but take my advice and give 
no countenance to the latter.” 

At this the interview ended with a laugh, and Alex re- 
turned to his work. 


269 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

“Love sought is good, but given unsought is better.” 

— Twelfth Night. 

Despite the presumably uninteresting situation in 
which Phyllis was placed — alone in a large isolated house 
with her aunt and the servants, a funereal atmosphere 
within; a turbulent, inhospitable, semi-wintry one with- 
out — the March days were passing with seeming 
rapidity, and the last of them for the year would soon be 
come and gone. The hosts of Boreas were slowly but 
surely being pressed back upon their polar fastnesses by 
those of Notus, whose swift scouts had for more than a 
month been skirting flank and rear in this vicinity with 
the vigor and daring of renewed and growing confi- 
dence, and whose truculent vanguards were now charg- 
ing the broken ranks of their retreating enemy with 
tropical impetuosity. Already their friendly presence 
was making it safe for Phyllis to pass much of her time 
out of doors, as was her wont, driving, walking, and 
strolling upon the lawn with Fido and Leonidas; the lat- 
ter of whom now frequently returned her visits to the 
Robin, and rollicked about the house and lawn with his 
smaller and more dandified acquaintance. 

Alex, who had now given up his work in New York, 
visited his mother daily, and was frequently accompanied 
270 


Eminent Respectability. 

by his father. The sight of his mother in tears of re- 
morse, and bowed in humiliation and contrition, had 
melted the young man’s heart. That had happened 
which he had supposed to be impossible. Nature had 
asserted itself. His feeling of aversion for Mrs. Belfield 
had given way to one of tender affection for the author 
of his being. In his discovery of new parents, however, 
he did not feel that he had lost his old ones. His ties 
of love and affection for the Websters were not weak- 
ened. He still called them father, mother, sister, as of 
old, and declined to leave their home for that of his real 
mother, as the latter requested him to do. 

Mrs. Belfield herself was a much-changed woman. Her 
old hauteur had given way to a look and manner of gen- 
tleness, humility and resignation, quite new to her; and, 
strange to say, she had in some manner learned the use 
of the letter “r.” Her whole soul seemed to go out to 
her son, whose daily coming she awaited with the im- 
patient expectancy of a sweetheart. 

Alex and Phyllis of course saw each other every day; 
but only recently had what might be called an intimacy 
sprung up between them. Alex had at first been shy 
and distant, conversing as little with Phyllis as polite- 
ness would admit of. As he has since explained to us, 
he was really afraid of her, and for two reasons. First, 
the circumstances of his life, as well as his temperament, 
had precluded him from acquiring the refinements of 
polite society, which he felt that a young man must have 
to be interesting to a girl like Phyllis. He could neither 
dance nor sing; nor could he engage in “small talk,” 
without feeling that he was making a fool of himself. 
Being conscious of this, he was loath to risk his reputa- 
tion for good sense in any attempt at entertaining so ac- 

271 


Eminent Respectabilit}^ 


complished a girl as she. And, secondly, he was con- 
scious of being bewitched by her beauty and wit; and, 
inasmuch as he could never hope to marry one so far 
removed from himself socially, he thought it prudent to 
avoid a close intimacy with her, lest the siren-like influ- 
ence of her charms should lure him into some humili- 
ating indiscretion, or at least lead to painful reflections. 
Gradually, however, these considerations had been over- 
come by the stronger influence of her graces. By de- 
grees, he had come to feel easier in her society — to learn 
that she could be entertained with something other than 
small talk. 

Phyllis, for her part, found Alex very different from 
George Junkin, and from every other young man of her 
acquaintance. He had little external polish ; but, as she 
had long known, he had every quality of mind that could 
command her respect. He was no Chesterfield — no 
“Knight of the Evening Dress,” but rather, a modern 
Achilles, upon whose sturdiness of character she felt that 
a woman could safely recline. 

Neither of these young persons was allowed to remain 
ignorant of the other’s admiration. Nothing would have 
pleased Mrs. Belfield and Casper Carson more than see- 
ing them joined in wedlock. Hence, they had not failed 
to make each acquainted with the expressions of ap- 
proval that had passed the lips of the other. Under these 
circumstances, courtship would have been easy, had they 
had courting proclivities, which, however, they had not. 

One warm, bright day, the ground having become 
well dried by a week of wind and sunshine, Phyllis ven- 
tured to sit awhile upon her favorite seat on the lawn — 
the one upon which she sat when her uncle told her of his 
hopes respecting herself and young Junkin. Alex, see- 
272 


Eminent Respectability. 

ing her there as he entered the grounds on his way to 
the house, approached and sat beside her. 

“Does he love you?’' he said, pleasantly, seeing that 
Phyllis was toying with the petals of two roses, one of 
which was large and full blown, the other being a half- 
open bud. 

“Yes,” she answered, without looking up. 

“Which? The one with beard and spurs? or the cal- 
low youth?” 

Both, I fancy.” “This one, however, has been mute 
since it yielded its first petal,” added Phyllis, holding up 
the undeveloped flower. “Would you believe that it is 
the older of the two?” 

“I certainly should not have guessed it,” replied Alex. 

“It is; but it is of a slow kind. It will speak, though, 
in its own good time, and I have no doubt whatever as 
to what it will say.” 

The conversation had gone on in this strain for per- 
haps ten minutes, when Alex asked Phyllis if she thought 
of returning to the stage. The latter said that she did 
not. “Did you not like it?” he asked. “Yes, and no,” 
replied Phyllis. “Being obliged to decide between these 
feelings, however, I decided no.” “By the way, Alex,” 
she added, “I have neglected to thank you for coming to 
the opera so regularly while I sang. Your presence was 
a great help to me — a stimulant, without which I really 
doubt that I could have gone on.” 

“Ah? I am surprised to learn that there is anything 
inspiring in my presence. I never supposed it, I assure 
you; but, if I unwittingly did you a service, I am very 
glad of it, and you may be sure that I was amply repaid.” 

“Did you really enjoy the performance?” 

273 


Eminent Respectability. 

“Of course. Otherwise, I should not have repeated 
my first visit.” 

“I have thought that it must have grown tiresome to 
you,” said Phyllis, looking pensively at her roses. 

“Not at all. Your participation gave the opera a fea- 
ture that grew more agreeable with every performance.” 

“I think you are talking nonsense, Alex.” 

“Why so?” 

“I think you really tired.” 

“But have I not spoken to the contrary?” 

“Yes; but your actions have said that you did; and 
they are more reliable than words, even though the lat- 
ter be spoken in the best of faith.” 

“But, surely, the fact of my having attended the opera 
throughout its run gives my words the fullest confirma- 
tion possible.” 

“Pah!” exclaimed Phyllis, with a look of irritation, 
followed by a pretty moiie; and suddenly rising from the 
seat, she walked away. 

“Where are you going?” asked Alex. 

“To the post office.” 

“May I have the pleasure of accompanying you?” 

“No. Go to your mother; she is waiting for you.” 

Alex walked away with a smile; being considerably 
amused by this pertness. On his way out, an hour or 
so later, he saw that Phyllis again occupied the seat on 
the lawn, and again he joined her. Conversation was re- 
sumed, and finally came to a point where Alex jokingly 
inquired if he might expect to soon hear of her marriage, 
now that she had decided to give up the stage. “Yes,” 
said Phyllis, with an air of serious simplicity. 

“Ah, indeed!” said Alex, really surprised by her reply. 
“May I ask who is to be the happy groom?” 

274 


Eminent Respectability. 

‘‘Yes; but Pm not obliged to tell you.” 

“Now, that is unkind of you, Phyllis; really — ” 

“It should not be necessary for me to tell you.” 

“Why, in truth, Phyllis, I was joking. I had no idea 
of your being engaged. And I am quite sure that your 
aunt doesn’t suspect it neither.” 

“Indeed! What k mind you must have!” safd Phyllis, 
with a look of disgust. 

“Really, Phyllis, you must pardon me. Had I sus- 
pected such a thing, I should not have spoken. It must 
be some recent development, eh?” 

“On the contrary, it is of long standing,” she said, with 
a pout. “I have been engaged since I was thirteen.” 

Alex broke out laughing, notwithstanding Phyllis’s 
apparent seriousness. “Such constancy has not been 
known of since the days of Homer’s Penelope,” he cried, 
in his merriment. “But,, with what wonderful secrecy 
your Ulysses has conducted his wooing! No wonder 
that you refuse to name him.” 

Phyllis again suddenly arose and started off — this 
time, toward the house. 

“You are not going away angry, I hope,” said Alex. 

She turned about quickly, and, for a brief moment, 
showed him a beautifully-tinted face, and a mouth 
twisted into one of the most bewitching of moues; then, 
giving him a withering look, she said, with great energy, 
“Alex Webster, you are a — a — a lobster! Go home,” 
and ran off toward the house. 

Alex thought her conduct strange, but very amusing. 
Of course she had been joking about being engaged; 
yet there was something very strange, he thought, in the 
nature and subject of her humor. As he sat there mus- 
ing, he thought of her as a girl of thirteen. At that age, 

275 


Eminent Respectability. 


he and she had attended the same school, and there had 
existed a familiarity between them that he had not dared 
to presume upon three years later. Suddenly he re- 
called that one evening, on their way from school, he 
had jokingly asked Phyllis to marry him, and that she 
had promised to do so. As this circumstance, which 
had long since flown from his mind with other frivolities 
of youth, now recurred to him, he became serious. For 
half an hour he remained there thinking, and “Looking 
emotions once he feared to feel.” Dared he “Speak the 
wisdom once he could not think”? and “change to all 
which once he dared not be”? yet, to be which would 
“make earth like Heaven”? When he finally arose, he 
walked slowly back to the house. As he entered, he saw 
Phyllis’s skirt disappear at the library door. He fol- 
lowed, and closed the door behind him. She looked into 
his face; he looked into hers. He advanced toward her; 
she did not move. He clasped her in his arms, and she 
did not object. Nor did she protest against the passion- 
ate kissing that he gave her. 

“And you will marry me, Phyllis, poor as I am?” 

“The two of us together will not be so poor.” 

“And I a confirmed misanthrope?” 

“Am I not another?” 

“And a crank?” 

“Which I have always been said to be.” 

“And a nullifidian?” 

“What do I know that’s unknowable to you?” 

“And I do not approve of the marriage vow, Phyllis.” 

“Neither do I; but an absurd vow given under duress 
has no binding force in morals.” 

“And you will take me upon my word; as a pigeon 
takes her mate?” 


276 


Eminent Respectability. 

“Yes, Alex; upon your word, and not your vow.” 

. “And just as I am?” 

“Were you other than what you are, I might not take 
you.” 

And so it was settled. An odd courtship, truly; but, 
then, these were odd persons, and both of them were 
prone to ways “From custom’s evil taint exempt and 
pure.” Alex never wooed a girl, yet he got a jewel of a 
wife. Phyllis was unwooable, but she got happily mar- 
ried to the man of her choice, nevertheless. 


277 


CHAPTER XXIX. 


“Aye free, aflf-han’ your story tell 
When wi’ a bosom crony; 

But still keep something to yoursel’ 

Ye scarcely tell to ony.” — Burns. 

I 

The following afternoon, the Belfields received a visit 
from George Junkin. Phyllis observed that the young 
man had considerably changed since they had last met. 
He now looked much older, seemed to have become taci- 
turn, and wore a serious expression that, as she correctly 
guessed, was due to something other than disappoint- 
ment in love. In a brief private conversation, during 
which he handed her a large sealed envelope, she herself 
got the explanation; but she has never divulged it. 
Whatever it may have been, its recital produced in Phyllis 
a feeling of pain, rather than of surprise ; for, upon hear- 
ing it, the pretty cameo tinting faded from her face, and 
she bit her lip in a way that was characteristic of her 
when learning of something that she particularly de- 
plored. We suspect that it was a revelation of some 
wrong-doing on the part of the young man’s father. 
His look of vexation and shame seemed to indicate this; 
and the envelope that he gave Phyllis contained the will 
of George Belfield, father to Henry and Arthur, which 
had been discovered in a private drawer of Josiah Jun- 
kin’s safe, after his death; the instrument that had been 
278 


Eminent Respectability. 

probated as the will of said George Belfield being, as was 
subsequently proved, a forgery. 

This will explained to Phyllis the elder Junkin’s de- 
sire for a marriage between herself and George; for, by it 
her grandfather had bequeathed the whole residue of his 
estate to her father, of whom she was the sole represen- 
tative. Manifestly, he had secretly held this will, which 
he himself had written, and which had been left with him 
as attorney for George Belfield, for use after such a mar- 
riage had taken place. Her uncle’s desire for the mar- 
riage was readily accounted for on the theory of a “sop” 
to the Cerberus who knew his secrets. 

The conduct of young Junkin was, as Phyllis assures 
us, in all respects honorable; and he and his wife are to 
this day among the warmest friends of the Websters. 

Mrs. Belfield having no disposition to contest either 
of the two wills that had now come to light, and Virginia 
being advised against it, an amicable arrangement was 
quickly made, whereby the principal of her legacies, to- 
gether with interest thereon, was transferred to Phyllis; 
leaving the extra profits realized by the skilful handling 
of her uncle to the two former. And, these latter were 
by no means inconsiderable. In fact, they, together 
with what properly belonged to him, constituted the 
greater part of his large estate; and, to any other than 
a woman encumbered with the expense of maintaining a 
titled husband, a moiety of them would have been ample 
for every reasonably modest purpose. 

As it was, however, these disclosures produced do- 
mestic scenes at Falkenstein Castle which, though they 
might be interesting to many a reader, we must permit 
to remain in their proper privacy. 


279 


CHAPTER XXX. 


“Far from the madding crowd’s ignoble strife, 

Their sober wishes never learn’d to stray; 

Along the cool, sequester’d vale of life 
They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.” — Gray. 

Late in the month of May, about five years after the 
marriage of Alex Webster (by which name he is still 
known) and Phyllis Belfield, which followed closely upon 
their engagement, I, the writer of this history, visited 
B — for the purpose, primarily, of collecting additional 
data. Information previously received had prepared 
me for finding the old Belfield home in new hands — it 
having been sold to a New York merchant, who now 
occupies it — and Mr. and Mrs. Joel Webster living in 
retirement near Emily, who was happily married and the 
mother of a pretty little girl. 

The day being warm, I was taken in a town hack to 
the Webster farm, where I was to find Alex and Phyllis, 
who had bought the property and newly built upon it. 
And what a change had been made in it! Not a vestige 
of the old farm house and its outbuildings now remained. 
The maples that had once shaded them were still stand- 
ing, as were most of the fruit trees; but, where the build- 
ings had stood was now the corner of a field, in which 
a herd of fine Jersey cattle were feeding on rich clover. 
About a furlong back from the road, and so situated as 
280 


Eminent Respectability. 


to command a good view of the river, stood a handsome 
new house, surrounded by a wide lawn and a profusion 
of young trees and shrubbery. A charming site, a 
charming house; and, as I well knew, a most charming 
and worthy woman was its mistress. The approach was 
by a macadamized lane, flanked by young walnut, cherry 
and pear trees. The wide campus that encompassed the 
house was a veritable horticultural garden, and a labora- 
tory in which Nature was now compounding her most 
delicious perfumes. 

As we came near the house, I observed a beskirted 
creature digging among the tulips. Her face was hid- 
den in a large sunbonnet; but her figure and dress indi- 
cated that she was young, and the hands that held the 
trowel were incased in gloves. Near her, a little girl 
with dark ringlets, perhaps three and a half years of age, 
was also engaged in stirring the earth with a trowel; and, 
in another part of the lawn, an elderly, bearded man was 
walking about in his shirt sleeves giving directions to the 
gardener. On the porch, sat an elderly woman with her 
needle work, and a nurse was wheeling a coach about on 
the gravel walks. 

Leaving the hack in the roadway, I approached the 
woman with the trowel, who was so intently engaged 
with her tulips, or whose vision was so restricted by her 
large bonnet, that she had not noticed my coming. “Is Mr. 
Webster at home?” I asked. She looked up, and there, 
in what seemed to me the quaintest frame imaginable, 
was the smiling face of Phyllis, all aglow with health and 
good spirits. My welcome was most cordial. In tones 
that had the ring of truth in them, she declared that she 
was delighted to see me; and I assured her, of course, 
that the pleasure was mutual. She was well and happy, 
281 


Eminent Respectability. 


as was everybody about her. The child, who came close 
and clung to her mamma’s skirt while we talked, was 
little Elizabeth, their first-born. In the coach was a blue- 
eyed boy — little Casper — about a year old, whom Phyllis 
exhibited with pardonable pride depicted upon her hand- 
some face. The elderly man referred to was Casper 
Carson, and the elderly woman on the porch was his wife 
— the sometime Mrs. Henry Belfield, now Mrs. Casper 
Carson for the second time. They had been remarried 
a year after Henry Belfield’s death, and now lived to- 
gether in mutual love and esteem; sharing the spacious 
new house with Alex and Phyllis. Phyllis showed me 
about the grounds and talked with great enthusiasm of 
their expectations, as to flowers and fruit and shade, as 
the newly-planted trees and shrubs got greater age. 

Within an hour Alex returned from the fields, and, as 
little Casper was calling lustily for a draught at the 
*Vell-spring of pleasure,” Phyllis' left me to her husband. 
He had changed but little, either in appearance or man- 
ner. Notwithstanding his good fortune, he seemed as 
unassuming and as democratic as he was the day on 
which he assisted Phyllis from the river. In reply to a 
question of mine, he said that he expected to farm as 
long as he lived. He must have some occupation, and 
farming was the only one that suited his temperament — 
the only one that admitted of the openness and frank- 
ness and honesty and independence essential to what he 
conceived to be an ideal man. As a farmer, he need 
truckle to no man; he need not hesitate to speak his 
mind, from fear of hurting his “business;” he had no fear 
of some frankly-spoken word injuring his “chances.” He 
smilingly admitted, however, that, if he were obliged to 
support his family on the profits of the farm, he would 
282 


Eminent Respectability. 

probably think less favorably of the occupation. As it 
was, his chosen calling afforded many pleasures, and im- 
posed no hardships. He was practically always at 
leisure, and had abundant means with which to indulge 
every fancy. His pleasures, however, were simple; his 
time being devoted principally to his family, his farm, his 
books, and to frequent excursions on the Robin with his 
father, of which he was particularly fond. 

“Do you write any?’^ I asked. 

“Yes,” he replied; “I often contribute to the magazines 
that are struggling honestly and hopelessly with the so- 
cial question; but I do so anonymously and without 
pay.” 

“And your father; does his scholarship never find ex- 
pression ?” 

“Oh, yes; he contributes considerably, just as I do. 
He is now preparing the manuscript for a volume of es- 
says, which he will probably publish within the year.” 

“Do you take an active part in politics?” I inquired. 

“No,” said Alex, smiling, “nor an inactive part neither. 
I have not voted since I stood for the assembly. Under 
our political system, I regard the game of politics as a 
villainy, and voting as a farce — to all but the villains.” 

“But don’t you think it the duty of honest men to take 
an active part, with a view to holding the dishonest ones 
in check?” 

“No; I think it the duty of honest men to give no 
countenance to dishonest schemes. In my judgment, 
there is much more likelihood of their becoming con- 
taminated by contact with the game than of their purify- 
ing or dignifying it.” 

“But we must have government,” I said. 

“Well,” he replied, “if you and the rest of the world 
283 


Eminent Respectability. 


will permit me to govern myself without assistance, I 
will gladly undertake the task; and, if you can’t govern 
yourself, your friends should put you in an asylum, or at 
least keep a close watch over you. You must excuse 
me from lending any assistance, unless you are adjudged 
a lunatic or an idiot.” 

“Up to a certain point, I agree with you,” I replied; 
“but, surely, we must have some established authority, 
for the prevention of crime.” 

“Magistrates and juries do that. But they are not 
“governors.” They are but agents appointed by society 
for the partial repression in a specified manner of the 
evils that result from government.” 

“Ah!” said I, “that distinction is quite new to me.” 

“That is because you have never studied the subject.” 

“Very likely. I admit that I never have.” 

“Well, it’s so the world over; the devotees of a fetich 
are the priests, who profit by a general belief in it, and 
those who know nothing about it.” 

“I see that good fortune has wrought no change in 
your pessimistic views.” 

“None whatever. I am very fortunate under a very 
bad system. I suppose that I should not grumble; but, 
if society were not made up of a lot of foolish persons 
and a few knaves, such a condition could not exist ; and, 
when men become wise enough to establish equitable 
conditions, I will be quite willing to yield my advantage.” 

“Does your father share your views?” 

“Yes; we think very much alike.” 

The impression that I got was that his views had a 
constitutional, rather than an educational, cause; that 
they were due less to his reasoning — ^which, however, 
seemed keen enough — ^than to the mental characteristics 
284 


Eminent Respectability. 

that had been transmitted to him through the blood of 
Casper Carson. 

Replying to some facetious questioning relative to his 
misanthropy, he said that he disliked his fellow man only 
as the product of evil conditions. He disliked a liar, a 
cheat, a self-seeker, a hypocrite and a voluntary ignor- 
amus; one or more of which he found a vast majority of 
his fellow men to be— the result, as he believed, of a bad 
system of laws. He liked Ford, who was one of his fre- 
quent visitors, because he was not a hypocrite. He con- 
fessed his evil-doing frankly; but, as a matter of fact, he 
was one of the most generous and obliging men in the 
world, despite his loud profession of misanthropy. He 
liked his neighbor Fullerton, for similar reasons; and he 
and the latter were warm friends, notwithstanding the 
distance between them in point of culture. 

“Are not you and your father regarded by your neigh- 
bors as a pair of cranks?” I asked. 

“Oh yes,” replied Alex, smiling, “we are looked upon 
as two agents of Hell — excepting when favors are de- 
sired.” This I subsequently verified; and I learned that 
the worthy seldom appealed to them in vain, there being 
few men in the vicinity who were not under obligations 
to them. 

I learned, moreover, that Phyllis expended much of 
her time and a liberal proportion of her large income in 
charity. But in this, as in most other things, she had 
her own peculiar method. She never contributed to or- 
ganized charities, nor responded to personal appeals. 
Those who received her alms never knew who was their 
benefactress. Nor did any other know. SKe never gave 
under conditions that would either exalt herself or de- 
grade the one relieved. She believed in and practiced 

285 


Eminent Respectability. 


the charity advocated by Christ, not in that which “feeds 
the body and starves the soul.” 

Alex told me that, although Phyllis had much com- 
pany, chiefly her former school friends, their house was 
the scene of no “social festivities,” and that they never 
attended any. 

Banks, he said, he had found to be a most excellent 
fellow, despite his eccentricities; and he and Phyllis an- 
nually spent a week of the hunting season with him and 
Helen, who had recently got to returning their visits. 

At dinner, Alex provoked a reprimand from Phyllis, by 
saying that Virginia, with her little boy, had three years 
previously joined the “American Colony of Snobbery” in 
London. As to whether or not she had succeeded in 
shaking the title loose from the husband, however, he 
did not say, and I forgot to ask. 

Leonidas was still living, but his sun was almost set. 
He was old and irascible, but harmless, no longer having 
any teeth. 

I found the society of the Websters and Carsons very 
enjoyable, and withal interesting and instructive; and I 
would have gladly accepted their invitation to prolong 
my stay, had not my program required me to be away 
that evening on my journey to the home of Jacob Banks, 
in Virginia. 

This I found to be all that he had pictured to Helen — 
as he now calls her — that night in the New York cafe. 
The latter looked remarkably well and — as I thought — 
handsome, despite the sprinkling of premature gray 
hairs and serious expression, which impressed me as be- 
ing due rather to the vicissitudes of her early life than 
to any natural cause. She declared herself to be de- 
lighted with her home and her quiet, secluded life, her 
286 


Eminent Respectability. 


pets, and her flowers; and, from what I saw, I am sure 
she was. 

Nor had she any occasion forieeling lonely. They had' 
no children of their own; but they had taken two or- 
phans to raise, a boy now ten, and a little girl of six 
years. They had not legally adopted these children, but 
had taken them on a promise to treat them in all re- 
spects as they would treat children of their own, if they 
proved to be worthy: and their prospects, I thought, were 
excellent; for they seemed to be children of promise, 
and very much pleased with their home and foster pa- 
rents, who were, in turn, greatly attached to them. In 
addition to a complement of negro servants, they had 
living with them a middle-aged woman who did the fam- 
ily sewing and, in Helenas absence, managed the house- 
hold; thus rendering the latter’s position one of ease and 
freedom. 

While I do not doubt Helen’s sincerity, it is difficult 
for me to believe that she spoke the truth when she told 
Banks that she did not love him. If she did, she has 
since learned to love, or else love is not essential to 
slave-like devotion on the part of one person to the com- 
fort and happiness of another. For I have never seen 
a better example of conjugal fidelity than she exhibited, 
and without the slightest apparent aflfectation. The ob- 
ject of her life seemed to be to make her husband happy. 
She studied his tastes and pleasures, that she might 
make them her own, and had become an accomplished 
equestrienne and an enthusiastic angler, that she might 
be his companion in his pastimes. Nor did her husband 
receive her devotions in a selfish spirit. He adored his 
wife, and no husband is or can be more generous and 
thoughtful. And, in addition to being a good husband, 
287 


Eminent Respectability. 

AUG. 15 1902 

the quiet, atrabiliar Banks proved to be a most excellent 
host. So much so, that my stay, which I had 'intended 
to extend only over one night, was prolonged to four 
days; and, had circumstances permitted it, I could have 
extended it to four weeks with inexpressible pleasure to 
myself. As it was, however, on the afternoon of the 
fourth day after my arrival I was obliged to regretfully 
bid them farewell, which I did with a formal exchange of 
best wishes, hoping from the bottom of my heart that 
their felicity might be undimmed and unabated until their 
earthly joys and sorrows alike be lost in the merciful 
waters of Lethe. 


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